Harry Logan and the Crystals of Power
by Argonaut57
Summary: Harry Logan is a perfectly ordinary 11-year-old - if you discount his enhanced healing ability, heightened senses, extraordinary strength and reflexes, and the weird, random things that happen when he gets annoyed. Meeting the laconic spy, James MacLeod, the enigmatic Dr Mithradore and the orange giant Rubeus Grimm is only the beginning... Amalgam story
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Logan and the Crystals of Power**

Chapter 1: Survivor

It was quite the most ordinary suburban street anyone could imagine. To look at the rows of neat semi-detached houses, nobody would think that, just the previous night, the career of one of the most dangerous men in the world had ended in fire and blood. But that was fair enough, as the people who lived here mostly knew nothing of the matter.

It was only about nine in the evening, so the sight of a smartly-dressed woman in her thirties walking down the street was not to be wondered at. Coming home from a visit, perhaps, or taking an evening walk, maybe picking something up from the corner grocery, where the hard-working Pakistani family did business later than most. Her high heels clicked on the paving stones as she strode confidently past the entrance of the park the street backed onto. Then she stopped and turned suddenly, lithely, producing a thin stick from nowhere.

"Show yourself!" She snapped.

If the woman looked as if she belonged, the figure that loomed out of the shadows of the park gate looked anything but. Perhaps eight feet tall, he was clad in a long overcoat, jeans and heavy boots. The coat fell open across his chest, which was orange in hue, and of a stone-like appearance. What of the man's face that could be seen past the mane of wild black hair and shaggy beard had the same colour and texture. A pair of steady, jet-black eyes studied the woman.

She sighed and lowered her stick: "Rubeus Grimm!" She declared. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me – _he_ asked you to keep an eye on things, right?"

As she spoke, she moved closer to the shadows and – _changed_. Her form flickered slightly, then became that of a tall, full-figured woman with mahogany-coloured hair drawn back into a tight bun, attractive but stern features, indigo skin and piercing yellow eyes. She wore a simple white robe, the hood of which she pulled over her head.

The orange giant grinned down at her. "Professor Darkholme, in person! Did the big guy get all the troops out?"

"I'm not here at the behest of the Director, Grimm. I did think it best, though, to make a discreet assessment of what he insists on making into a safe house."

Grimm rubbed at his beard with a blocky, three-fingered hand, replying in his gravelly tones. "The boss always has a reason fer doin' what he does, Prof. Me, I figure it's best not to ask."

Darkholme smiled. "You don't want to know?" She asked.

Grimm shrugged. "Nah," he said, "I asked once and he explained somethin' to me. My head ached fer a week!"

She shook her head. Minerva Darkholme was never sure why the Director placed so much trust in this creature. Grimm was good-natured, kindly, fiercely loyal to his friends and the Facility. He was also perhaps the strongest living being Minerva had ever met, and a ferocious fighter when necessary. But he was not, he freely admitted, the sharpest knife in anyone's drawer!

Somewhere behind them, in the park, there was an odd whirring sound.

"That's him." Minerva said. "I wasn't expecting him tonight, not after..."

A figure approached the gate from inside the park. An elderly man, thin and tall but stooped, wearing a black frock coat and checked trousers. He had a sharp-featured face, with a high forehead and a pointed nose, his hair was white and long, as was his beard; from under a pair of bushy eyebrows, his bright blue eyes glinted behind half-moon spectacles. In one hand, he carried a large basket, in the other he held a cane that seemed more for show than support.

The park gate was an impressive, wrought-iron, Victorian affair, but there was a small wicket for the use of the park-keepers set into it. The old man waved his cane at this, and it swung open silently, he stepped through, beaming at his colleagues.

"Minerva! Rubeus! How splendid!"

"Dr Mithradore," Minerva acknowledged, "is that...?"

"Yes, indeed!" Mithradore lifted the basket. "The sole survivor."

Minerva peered into the basket. Inside was a baby boy, perhaps a year old, with a thick mop of black hair, a blunt nose and a determined chin. He was fast asleep, and appeared to be in the best of health.

"Doctor," she said, "I understood that the boy was badly injured in the explosion?"

"Oh, he was!" Mithradore replied. "At first, the Healers despaired of him, but he wouldn't stop breathing. He slept until three hours ago, then awoke, fully healed and ragingly hungry. He fed, and now he's sleeping again. Remarkable, hm?"

"Truly," Minerva remarked, "he is his father's son."

"Did...anyone else...survive?" Asked Grimm quietly.

"The remains – I cannot honestly say 'bodies' – of both parents were found, but no others." Mithradore stated flatly. "I was not, however, the first on the scene. When I arrived, I found Dante Black there. He had just extracted the child from the wreckage of his room. He told me he was not the first, and that the other victim had already been taken. Where or by whom he could not or would not say. Nor could he confirm whether Morsmordre was alive or dead."

"You trust Black?" Minerva asked.

"That particular brother, yes." Mithradore replied emphatically. "He was a good friend to this boy's parents. His only regret was that he will not be able to watch over the child as he promised to."

"Speaking of that, Doctor." Minerva's voice changed. "Are you sure this is the right decision? To leave the child with these Muggles? Not to have him reared among his own kind?"

"These are his own kind, Minerva." Mithradore insisted. "The only family he has. They are good and kind people, and will care for him well."

"They are," Minerva acknowledged, "but they are also frightened. They know enough of our world to terrify them. They will do everything to keep this boy from knowing who he truly is."

"In that lies his greatest safety." Mithradore declared. "In our world, he will be famous, and a target. Not all of Morsmordres' adherents are captured, or even known. As far as our world is concerned, the boy has vanished, and we need it to stay that way until he is ready to come to us."

With that, the old man took the basket and crossed to a house on the other side of the road. A four-bedroomed 'semi' with nothing to mark it out from any of the others. He laid the basket on the doorstep, took an envelope from an inside pocket and placed it on top of the blanket.

"We will meet again, Harry Logan." He said quietly, then rang the doorbell.

When Mrs Martha Parker opened the door, the street was empty, but her cry of surprise brought her husband running.

_And ten years passed..._

"You can't keep running, Logan!" Stiggs yelled as he and his gang pursued Harry across the park. Harry swore to himself, normally, he'd have gone for the streets, relying on his agility and a little free-running to evade these plonkers. But the fact was, he'd got away late, and it was the last day of term, of the school year, actually, and Aunt Martha would be cooking his favourite spaghetti bolognaise for dinner. So he'd cut across the park, not realising that Stiggs and his gang would be looking out for one last chance to give him a kicking.

He rounded a corner between two hedges, _Oh, fuck!_ It was a dead end. He spun around to face a triumphant Stiggs. OK, then, if they wanted a fight, a fight they'd have! Harry was pissed off with avoiding them anyway, whatever Ben said. He could feel the anger boiling up in him now, and it was a good feeling, good to let it out. It wasn't like the other times, the little irritation that led to weird things happening. This was the real thing, the blood-pounding rage that he only felt once in a while, but which left opponents crying and bleeding on the ground at his feet.

There were four of them. Lousy odds, but that didn't mean he'd go easy on them. His muscles felt like iron, there was a red cloud in front of his vision, and a throbbing ache in his wrists and the backs of his hands, as if something under the skin was trying to get out.

Stiggs was grinning now, like a baboon, only not so cute: "Gotcha, Logan!" He crowed. "Cocky little arsehole, aren't you? Thought you'd got away with it, didn't you? But now you're going to learn who's the fucking boss! No more smart-arse cracks – unless you can talk with a broken jaw!"

"Stiggs!" A new voice, but familiar to them all. "Leave him alone, you little shit! I've warned you before!"

The newcomer was a big, brawny lad a couple of years older the the rest of them. His normally open, cheerful face was currently dark with anger. Stiggs hesitated – Ben Parker was not someone you took on lightly. He glanced around at his gang, they were visibly quailing. Not only did Logan look ready to fight – not even a tiny bit scared, when he should have been peeing himself – but now Big Ben was in play. It was a no-win situation, and Stiggs gave it up.

"You got away with it this time, Logan!" He snarled. "But I'll see you next term, at Crowe Street. There won't be so many places to hide there, and our Dave and his mates'll make sure Parker doesn't interfere anymore!"

"Your Dave shits himself if I look at him wrong!" Ben pointed out. "Now fuck off out of it, Stiggs!"

The gang slunk off, and Ben Parker considered his cousin. Harry was short for his age, but stocky, with sturdy legs, thick arms and big, powerful hands. Under his wild mop of black hair, his piercing green eyes were still ablaze with rage, a rage that made Ben scared, of the boy and for him.

"Settle down, Harry." Ben said softly. "Don't waste it on them."

Harry took a deep breath, then looked up at his cousin. "I could've taken them." He said resentfully. "What's Uncle John always saying? If you stand up to bullies, they leave you alone?"

"Uncle John's talking out of his arse." Ben said flatly. "It's like the old 'bigger they come, harder they fall' bullshit. Usually, the bigger they come, the harder they hit!

"Look, Harry, if you're going to stand up to a bully, you have to be bigger than them. You're strong, Harry, and fast, but all _they_ see is that you're a head shorter than any of them. That makes you the little guy, and little guys are supposed to take their kicking, curl up and cry a bit. Then they'll leave you alone.

"But you're a stubborn little git. You give them too much gob for them to ignore you, you get in the way when they're battering your mates, and you won't lie down like you're supposed to. So they'll keep coming after you until somebody gets hurt. I mean really hurt – hospital hurt. You got away with that when you were six, Harry, but now it'd be social services and all kinds of shit. How d'you think Mum and Dad would feel about that?"

"That's blackmail!" Harry told him, the humour back in his eyes.

"Too bloody right!" Ben agreed. "Now, let's get home, dinner's on!"

They went, but it wasn't quite all over yet. Stiggs and his gang had hung around, and now began cat-calling from a safe distance. Ben ignored them, but Harry sent a venomous glare at Stiggs. Almost immediately, the bully's trousers began to smoke, then burst into flame! There was a deal of yelling and rolling about on the grass before the smouldering garment could be removed, and Stiggs ran off home in his grubby underpants.

Later that evening, as the boys bickered amiably over a game of _Street-Fighter_, John and Martha Parker discussed what Ben had told them while Harry was changing his clothes.

"It's starting, John." Martha said. "We always knew this would happen. He's my sister's son, and James'. What can we do?"

"The best we can to keep it to a minimum." He replied firmly. "Look, I loved Lily, and James was a good man, a fine man. But they were what they were. If they'd kept it quiet, worked round it, ignored it, they'd be alive today. But they went off to that Facility, got involved with all that stuff, and they got killed.

"That world is dangerous, love, and we want Harry to have a normal, happy life. If he gets mixed up with all that stuff, what chance does he have?"

"But can he bottle it up?" She asked anxiously. "You know his temper, John. As for hiding it! He's half Ben's size, but easily as strong, he's never ill..."

"Time was, he was never anything but ill!" John interrupted.

She made an impatient gesture. "Yes, when he was a toddler, he caught everything. But only once, John, and he's not had so much as a cold in the last four years! That time he broke his arm, it healed in days, not weeks! People notice things like that.

"Then there's the other stuff. That idiot teacher whose hair turned blue. The car that stopped in its tracks just before it hit Ben. Harry doesn't realise yet that he's the one who's doing it, he thinks it's just luck or something. But he's nearly eleven, and sooner or later, he's going to start asking questions. What do we do then? Lie to the boy?"

"We've lied to him all his life." He pointed out heavily. "We tell him his parents died in a gas explosion. That's true as far as it goes, but we don't tell him what caused the explosion. That his dying father fired a shotgun at a maniac in a room with a broken pipe."

"What happens when Dr Mithradore turns up?" Martha wanted to know. "His letter said he'd send for Harry when it was time."

"He's got no authority in this world, Martha." John was firm. "If he comes, and if Harry wants no part of him – and we'll do our best to convince the boy – he'll have no right to take him. If worst comes to worst, we'll have the man arrested!"

It had been a pretty good birthday, Harry allowed to himself a week or so later. He hadn't had a party, for two reasons. Firstly, he didn't really have that many friends. Secondly he was growing increasingly uncomfortable in crowded, noisy places. Over the last few months, his sight, hearing and sense of smell had begun to sharpen and extend to a degree he realised was far from normal. He was able to spot the slightest movement from remarkable distances, for instance, and function well in anything sort of pitch-blackness. He was getting to be able to identify people by their specific smell, not just the combination of food, soap, deodorant and environmental odours that everyone carried with them – he'd been able to do that as long as he could remember – but a specific scent that was purely individual to the person. But the hearing was the worst. Sounds that had been soft were clear, ones that had been clear were now loud, and loud ones were deafening.

He'd asked his aunt and uncle about it, and they had exchanged a significant look. Then they sat him down and Uncle John explained.

"We were hoping this wouldn't happen, Harry, but it's a genetic condition. Your father had it, so did his grandfather, so we thought it might skip you, but it hasn't. It's a kind of neurological condition called 'hyperesthesia', your senses are becoming very acute.

"Now, we could take you to the doctors, and they'd poke you and prod you and make you do tests, but there's nothing they can actually do. The good news is that your Dad told us that you eventually get used to it. Your brain adapts somehow, and things seem normal. I mean, you'll always see, hear and smell more than other people, but it'll feel normal to you, do you understand?"

"I think so." Harry said slowly. "But right now, my head hurts!"

They gave him paracetamol for the headaches, but not too much or too often, and bought him a Walkman with large earphones that blocked a lot of the sound. As they had predicted, Harry began to get used to the daily assault, but it was clear that this was going to take time. What he didn't notice, but they did, was that his already formidable reflexes and strength were also increasing rapidly. Worse, the 'weirdness' that occasionally surfaced around him was happening more often.

For instance, at the Zoo that afternoon, some yobs had been banging on the glass front of an exhibit in the Reptile House. They had clearly been trying to attract the attention of its inhabitant, a large and obviously unbothered boa constrictor. The racket had been annoying Harry despite his headphones, and he had glared at the gang. At that same moment, the heavy safety-glass partition had somehow parted company with the wall it was fixed to. The youths had leapt back as the pane slid slowly down to land flat on the floor, then they had fled in panic as the eight-foot snake had casually glided out through the gap and headed for parts unknown. The worst part was that the snake appeared to send a single glance back toward Harry as it headed for the door. Ben swore ever after that the thing had given a nod of gratitude to his cousin!

That incident apart, which frankly the Parkers thought as amusing as it was disturbing, the day had been a success. They stopped off at KFC on the way home and purchased a family bucket, since Aunt Martha declared she had no intention of cooking. Shortly thereafter, happily stuffed, Harry declared his intention of going for a walk in the park.

It was still light on this summer evening, and the park was far from empty, if not as teeming as it might have been in the afternoon. Harry often took these evening walks, the comparative quiet made things easier for him, yet at the same time gave him an opportunity to use his extending senses. He'd wander through the park, watching, listening and scenting for people, trying to work out what they were up to, what they were about. This couple had just had a row; that couple were looking for a quiet corner for a snog; the older couple so comfortable in each other's company they no longer needed words; the old man who sat alone on a bench and was quietly sad. Harry saw it all, heard it all, smelled it all.

He was also discovering an ability to remain unseen himself. He could pad along quietly, melt into shadows, watch and listen to people from a distance that made him unnoticeable. Harry knew that such behaviour was not exactly ethical, but as his only motive was curiosity, he felt it was OK to do this. It had proved informative as well; his discovery of more than one couple going rather further than kissing had been something of an eye-opener!

This evening was much as all the others had been. Harry looked in on his 'regulars', then headed for what he privately termed the 'naughty corner'. This was a section of the park which the Council had elected to leave in a 'natural' state. Instead of the paved paths, trimmed lawns, clipped trees and bushes and formal flower-beds, it was an area of winding tracks, rugged trees and thick undergrowth. It was the place were couples went if they intended more than a relatively decorous snog. The area was holding an increasing fascination for Harry as he grew older. Not simply because of what went on there, but because the unplanned profusion of the place gave him a chance to exercise some of his newly-found skills. The area offered a variety of scents, both human and animal, and a roughness of terrain which gave him a chance to develop a skill-set similar to, but different from, the free-running he had been practising on the streets for two years now.

This evening, though, something wasn't right. There was an absence of the normal animal scurrying, and the scents of human lust were not as fresh, as immediate, as usual. Something made Harry proceed with more than his usual caution, though his curiosity drew him further into the area.

He smelled them before he saw them. A sharp-salt scent, that made them male. A coppery tang – tension, excitement and a little fear. Had Harry been a little more experienced, he might have avoided them, but unlike the other folk he had spied on, these men were on the alert, and they saw him as soon as he saw them.

He had a confused impression of white, fitted garments and face-masks. Then one of them pointed a stick and shouted something. Harry dove to one side instinctively, but not quite quickly enough. Something seemed to graze his left side, and his arm and leg went numb. He tumbled to the ground. The man who had -done whatever he had done – strode over to him, looking down. Harry now saw that the white garments were some kind of military uniform, the head and face covered with a hood or mask. Dark, fierce, eyes stared down at him as Harry became aware of a savage case of pins and needles in the arm and leg that had failed him. They were coming back to life.

"Got him!" He called back to his companion. "That was a doddle!"

It was at that point that Harry curled himself up and lashed out with both feet. He was aiming for the man's groin and had his opponent been one whit less experienced, he would have had a very uncomfortable few moments! As it was, he sensed the movement and made to dodge. Even so, Harry was too fast, and his double-footed kick struck the man's thigh.

Harry was strong for his age, as strong as a teenager, but his assailant was a grown man, and a fit one. The kick that might well have crippled a playground opponent caused this assailant to yell in pain and stagger a few paces back, swearing furiously.

Harry surged to his feet, looking to get past the man and run for home, but the white-clad assailant had already regained his balance.

"You vicious little shit!" He growled, and pointed the stick again. At that moment, Harry caught the scent of a third man, and heard two muffled reports. The man facing him jerked upright, red stains blossoming on the chest of his white uniform. Something whistled past Harry's cheek and a warm liquid splashed his face. Something hot trickled into his mouth.

Salt. Iron. Something else. Something indescribable that ignited the Berserker rage Harry had tried to keep in check all his life. All thoughts of flight were gone. Harry's vision was tinged with red, his senses became even more acute, but at the same time something stopped them from overwhelming him. His muscles hardened and bulged, there was a throbbing ache in his wrists and the backs of his hands. Everything seemed to slow down except Harry as he covered the distance between himself and the other white-clad man in three bounds.

The man raised a stick like the other one had used. Harry's thoughts zeroed in on this weapon, and it was wrenched from his opponent's hand, spinning away into the woods. Then Harry hit the man, double-fisted, in the gut. He heard his opponent gasp and grunt and pressed his attack, unable to stop. He was savage, but untrained, and that eventually told. Caught by surprise, the white-clad figure was staggered at first, but his training took over and he found a gap in the boy's flailing, catching one arm and throwing Harry to the ground, hard.

The wind was knocked out of the boy, but even so, he began to struggle to his feet, not even noticing the unnatural speed of his recovery. Still, it would have been too late for him, except that when he turned, his opponent had been taken from behind. A tall figure had his arms gripped around the man's head and neck. Cold blue eyes locked on Harry's and gave a flicker of acknowledgement, then the man made a sharp twisting motion and the white-clad figure's neck snapped with an audible crack.

The tall man stood waiting patiently as the Berserk rage ebbed out of Harry. He was wearing a grey suit, with pristine white shirt and a dark tie. He had a sharply handsome face and long jet-black hair he wore in a ponytail. His eyes were ice-blue and unwavering. As he saw Harry return to normality, he spoke without preamble.

"Next time, hit higher. You were an inch or two below the solar plexus. If you'd hit him there, our problems would've been over."

Harry blinked. "Thanks for the tip." He replied. "Now pardon me for asking, but who the fuck are you?"

The man inclined his head. "My name's MacLeod, James MacLeod. You're Harry Logan, and your Aunt Martha would not be happy to hear you use that language, my young friend."

"You know my aunt?" Harry was surprised.

MacLeod nodded. "I made myself known to your foster-parents a long time ago, Harry. My boss and I felt it made more sense for us to co-operate with your family than attempt to evade them."

"Then how come I don't know you?" Harry demanded.

"Because it was no business of mine to interfere with your growing up, Harry." MacLeod said seriously. "Nothing you've faced until this evening has been anything but the normal problems faced by a growing boy, and you've handled them all well – better than most, I may say – so there was no need for me to make myself known.

"If you'd known that someone like me was looking out for you, and why, you'd never have known a moment's peace, Harry. You'd never have learned to fight your own battles, or to get on terms with young...Siobhan? Is that her name?"

Harry blushed. "Oh, leave it out! We've only had a few cuddles and a snog or two!"

"Did you now?" MacLeod grinned. "Nice work, my young friend! And in answer to your next question, no, I don't watch you all the time. Especially where your friends, male or female, are involved. Contrary to every police or spy programme you ever saw on TV, it's quite possible to protect someone without violating their privacy! It's because of that you managed to handle yourself so well this evening, Harry.

"But now, I think, matters have come to a head. Dr M warned us this might happen when you turned eleven. It's a key age, I gather. So we'd best move quickly. You and your family are about to take an unscheduled holiday, Harry!"

"You're not going to tell me what's going on, are you?" Harry said a little resentfully.

MacLeod shook his head. "We don't have time right now, Harry, but as soon as we've got you safe for a bit, I'll tell you everything I know. You deserve that much, but I warn you now, I only know part of it."

As they had been speaking, MacLeod had gone over to a nearby bush and picked something up from the ground. Now he held it up so Harry could see. "Walther PPK 7.65mm semi-automatic pistol. Nice little weapon, but one I think you'll never need to use, Harry."

"Why not?" Harry asked.

"Because, my young friend, and your aunt and uncle should have told you this themselves a while back, you are a wizard."


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Logan and the Crystals of Power**

Chapter 2: The Past Catches Up

A holiday cottage in the Scottish Isles was not what the Parkers and Harry usually did for a holiday. Spain, Malta or Cyprus were their normal destinations. However, they hadn't booked a holiday this year, as they had planned to go to Florida the following spring, so the escape MacLeod had arranged took an unexpectedly pleasant turn. The weather was fine, the air crystalline and the scenery magnificent. Better than that, there was a whole new world of sights, scents and sounds for Harry to explore. But the crown was the quiet - to be able to walk around all day without his headphones was pure bliss.

Harry needed quiet, he needed to think. There'd been no time to discuss MacLeod's revelation about him in the sudden rush of packing and travel. Clearly, the elder Parkers did know MacLeod, as they accepted his curt instructions without question or demur. Ben, who Harry had managed to talk to a little, was as puzzled as he. The meeting that had occurred the morning after their arrival here had done less to clear things up than it had to give him more puzzles.

"I need to clarify a few things first," MacLeod had said, "just so Harry and Ben know where we stand. I work for a Government department called the Office for Special Logistics. Our remit is to deal with things that fall outside the normal run of events.

"One of the things we monitor are the activities of wizards and witches. Not the Neo-Pagan types who travel to Stonehenge every so often, or who prance around each others' living rooms in the nude. That's just a religion, and one of the better ones at that. I'm talking about real wizards and witches – people who do magic. Now the lab people at the Office tell me that magic is just an innate ability to manipulate probability, but however it works, it can cause problems.

"Fortunately there is, always has been, an international body that takes responsibility for wizards. They call themselves the Silent Council, and by and large they do the job well. But occasionally, they need a hand from ordinary governments, and in the UK, that means the Office.

"So, ten years ago now, the Council approached my boss and asked us to keep an eye on you, Harry. They said there'd been some trouble in their society, their world, and your parents had been involved in it and been killed because of it. They said that people from the other side might be looking for you, and that you needed to be kept an eye on. I've been doing that ever since.

"That's really all I know."

"You told me," Harry addressed his aunt and uncle, "that my parents died in a gas explosion. Was that true or not?"

John noted the boy's manner. Harry was making a visible effort to keep his emotions in check. It was time for the truth, John knew, but this was going to be hurtful and might well cost them Harry's love and trust.

"It was true as far as it went, Harry." He said heavily. "The house was destroyed in a gas explosion, and that was what killed your father, ultimately. But he was already dying, and your mother – Harry, we honestly don't know.

"They were attacked, in their own home, by a dangerous madman. They both fought him, and in the end, your father fired a shotgun at him. But there had been a lot of damage to the house, and the gas main was leaking. The whole place went up..."

John paused for a moment, unable to continue. Martha was weeping quietly – Ben put his arms round her. Harry could feel no sympathy, no pity, right now. He stared at his uncle, unrelenting, until John made himself continue.

"It was a sturdy old stone cottage, Harry, and they'd hidden you in the safest place in it. You were terribly hurt, but you healed. You've always had that way of healing fast. You get it from your father.

"That's as much as we know about it, Harry. Two days after it happened, you were left on our doorstep, with a letter. The letter came from someone called Dr Mithradore, who'd been your parent's teacher. That letter told us just what I've told you now, and one more thing. It said that this Mithradore would send for you 'when it is time'. You can see that letter if you want, we kept it for you."

Harry nodded, then got up. "I have to be by myself for a bit."

He didn't want to see the letter. He knew his uncle had told him the truth, or as much of it as he knew, anyway. Uncle John had not exactly lied to him, just not told him everything. Harry was angry about that, but not as angry as he might have been. The men in white had been looking to kidnap or kill him, his parents had been murdered. Harry was intelligent enough to realise that his aunt and uncle had wanted to protect him, so he'd gone out to work off the worst of his spleen rather than subject them to a hurtful outburst.

He walked for a while, blind to the beauty of the scenes around him. But eventually, sea and sky worked their ancient magic, and he found himself simply looking instead of fuming. He sat on a tree-stump and looked out to sea for a while. Then he said: "Who were those men in white, MacLeod?"

The tall spy came and stood beside him, apparently unsurprised at Harry's awareness of him.

"They call themselves 'The Brotherhood of the Serpent'." He said slowly. "They're one of the few organisations that cross over into both worlds, ours and the Shadow World. What they do elsewhere I don't know, but in our world, they specialise in stealing advanced technology. Not plans or specs, but actual prototypes.

"Their leader is called 'the White Skull', and that's all anyone outside the Brotherhood knows about him. What his interest in you might be, I have no idea.

"Are you ready to go back, now?"

Harry stood up. "I think so."

MacLeod studied the boy as they walked.

"I'm probably going to earn your eternal hatred for saying this, Harry," he ventured, "but you seem to be taking this in a very grown-up way!"

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. "About five years ago, I got into a bit of trouble at school. Well, a lot of trouble actually. One of the older kids was having fun kicking the little ones about, and he eventually got round to me. He started, I told him to bugger off, he wouldn't stop, I hit him back, it got worse." Harry sighed. "I lost it, really lost it. We both ended up in Casualty. I healed quicker – I always have. There was a lot of fuss, but we were only kids, so they let it slide.

"But I learned to watch my temper, you see. And when you do that, it gives you time to think. Think about why you're angry. Quite often, you realise that there really isn't any reason for it.

"My aunt and uncle thought they were doing their best for me. I can't fault them for that, can I?"

When they got back, Harry sat down at the table and said simply. "Tell me about my parents."

"Lily was a witch." Aunt Martha said. "But before that she was my little sister. She was kind, gentle, loving and wonderfully strong in herself. But she could do things, make things happen...

"She didn't know how or why, and it scared her. Then we had a visit from a strange old man called Dr Mithradore. He talked with Lily on her own, and then with all of us. He told us she was a witch, and about an Institute where she could learn how to control her powers. He told us she had to go there – be trained before she became dangerous to herself and anybody else.

"We were terribly upset, she was only eleven. But she wanted – _needed_ – to go. In the end, it was just like a boarding school. She wrote us every week, and came home for the holidays. Only, she couldn't tell us much about what she studied.

"Anyway, it was there she met James Logan." Martha smiled affectionately. "Bit of a rough diamond, was James. What we used to call a 'toughy muggins'. He was like you, Harry, short and stocky, but very strong and quick, and hot-tempered, too. But he adored Lily, and she loved him.

"We were thrilled when they married, and overjoyed when you were born.

"We didn't know, they never told us, that there was trouble in their world. Much less that it was some kind of civil war. Then they were gone!"

She began to cry again, and this time it was Harry who went to comfort her.

That was really all anyone knew, and Harry spent a lot of the next two days in ultimately frustrating speculation. He read Mithradore's letter, which told him very little more than his aunt and uncle had, except that it gave his parent's killer a name – Morsmordre. That meant nothing to Harry, but he did wonder if Morsmordre was the White Skull MacLeod had spoken of, or if one of them worked for the other.

MacLeod was another enigma. The laconic fellow was never far from Harry, but never so close as to intrude. He was always willing to talk, but freely admitted that he knew little or nothing more than he had already told them. Harry's senses, growing daily more acute, told him that something abut MacLeod was definitely out of the ordinary. He had, however, taken time out to teach Harry a few 'useful moves'.

"You're not quite quick or strong enough yet to take down a trained adult." MacLeod had explained. "But I can teach you a trick or two that will slow them down or make them let go. Then you peg it, lad. Between your senses and that _parkour_ you've been practising, you 'll be a devil to catch!"

Then there had been talks with his aunt and uncle. It was clear to Harry that they were more afraid of Mithradore than Morsmordre. They blamed his parents' involvement with the Shadow World for their deaths, and held Mithradore responsible for that.

"You don't have to go to this Institute, Harry." Uncle John told him. "You can keep yourself to yourself, not use any of that magical stuff, or any of the other, either. You're a bright lad. You can take your GCSE's and A Levels, go to uni, have a career. Just an ordinary, happy life."

Aunt Martha supported this view enthusiastically, but oddly enough, Ben was more cautious.

"Harry is who he is." He said to them all seriously. "He's different – I don't mean that in a bad way, Harry – and sooner or later someone will notice. What do you really want for him, Mum? To end up in the SAS? Or doing black ops for some ultra-secret organisation?"

"You've been watching too many films!" John had chided the lad, and everybody had laughed. Except MacLeod, who had given Harry an oddly measuring look.

The fact was, Harry had his own ideas. It wasn't just the senses, which he was growing rapidly accustomed to. Nor was it the fact that his physical abilities were developing so quickly. It was the _other stuff_ – the making things happen. Up to now, it had only happened when he'd been particularly angry or upset. But now he was starting to think about it, he was finding he could make it happen at any time. The problem was, it never came out as he intended, it was either too much or too little. As much as he concentrated, he seemed unable to focus properly, so that if he tried to pluck a flower without touching it, he'd uproot half the bed, but if he wanted to break a branch, he'd just pull off a leaf or two. Instinctively, he knew there was something missing, some tool or skill that he needed. The more the thought about it, the more he realised that this mysterious Mithradore and his Institute were likely to provide what was missing.

He was thinking about this late one night, perhaps two weeks after they'd arrived, when he heard something outside. A scuffle, tense breathing, a whispered command, "Quiet!". Harry slipped noiselessly out of bed and went downstairs. It was almost totally dark, but he could see very well in these conditions by now. Well enough to see MacLeod crouching in the shadows of the hallway, gun levelled at the door. Without turning his head, MacLeod gestured Harry back upstairs.

Then the front door blew in. A black shape was silhouetted in the frame for a second, then MacLeod fired, and the shape doubled over and fell away. At the same moment, Harry heard glass shattering upstairs, yells from Ben and his uncle, and Aunt Martha's scream. He went back up the stairs fast, just as both bedroom doors banged open. His and Ben's room disgorged two black-clad men, he caught a glimpse of Ben, lying half out of bed, apparently out cold. Out of the other one came John Parker, wrestling with a third black-clad man. John caught Harry's eye and yelled, "Run!" before viciously butting his opponent across the bridge of the nose. The assailant let go and staggered back, hands to face. Someone shouted "_Stupefy!_", there was a flash of red light, and John collapsed.

Then one of the men grabbed Harry, just as another shot sounded from downstairs. Harry slammed both fists into the attacker's solar plexus, as MacLeod had taught him. The breath whooshed out of the man's lungs and he doubled over, letting go of Harry. His mate stared, astonished for a moment. The someone downstairs called out something that sounded like "_Abracadabra_!", and there was a flash of vile green light that seemed hauntingly familiar to Harry. A woman's voice shrieked in anger "_Idiot_! I told you, no killing the Muggles! I'll hand you over to Scarlet Glove myself, arsehole! Now let's get the fucking kid and get out of here!"

The upstairs landing had a window at the front of the house, and it was this Harry made for. Again, everything but himself seemed to be going in slow motion. He crossed his arms over his face and smashed out through the window, knowing that any cuts he sustained would heal within hours. Even gravity seemed to be on a go-slow, as Harry had plenty of time to flip himself over and land easily, instinctively, on all fours on the front lawn.

_Wrong move._ He thought with some chagrin as he pulled himself upright. He was surrounded by about a dozen black-robed figures, all pointing sticks at him. Harry knew by now that the sticks weren't nearly as harmless, or indeed silly, as they looked. One of these people had, he guessed, killed MacLeod - Harry would have time to be upset about that later. Right now, how was he going to get out of this?

"Oh, how wonderful!" This was the woman's voice again. "He's still looking for a way out! There isn't one, Harry darling, but I do admire your persistence."

She came to stand in front of him then. Only a little taller than he, both muscular and curvy, she wore a figure-hugging black body suit rather than the robes the others wore. Her thick dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, exposing her face, which showed distinct traces of Oriental ancestry. Her eyes were dark, glittering and more than a little mad, and she considered Harry with a hungry smile. The breeze blew her scent to him; exotic perfume, blood-lust and sexual arousal blended together, and a bitter undertone of well-hidden fear.

"So," she purred, "the famous Harry Logan, at last! I should kill you right now for what you and your parents did to Viktor. But we need you alive, sweetie. We need to prod you and poke you and slice you up to find out why a year-old boy was able to cripple the greatest wizard in history. Then we'll kill you, if you haven't already died!"

Then quite suddenly, she tensed and her eyes widened. "No!" she hissed. Harry had caught the new scents at the same moment, perhaps a fraction before, and now he realised. _She's like me!_

Then a great, bellowing voice came out of the shadows. "_All right, you scumbags_! IT'S ARSE-KICKIN' TIME!"

A giant figure, at least eight feet tall, came charging out of nowhere. He wore nothing but jeans and boots, had wild black hair and beard, and his skin looked like orange rock! The black-robed men turned as one and began firing jets of light from their sticks at him. The exercise was pointless, as the giant didn't even seem to notice. He waded into the crowd, landing punches that sent black robes flying in all directions.

A sudden instinct sent Harry diving and rolling. He came up facing the woman, who was now in a fighting crouch. She raised her hands – two-inch long silvery claws had extended from her fingertips.

"You'll die, at least!" She hissed, then froze, staring at something behind Harry.

A tall, white-haired man with a sharp face and intense blue eyes moved beside Harry.

"Mithradore!" The woman snarled.

"Madame Silverclaw." The old man acknowledged. "Pleasant as this reunion may be, Bella, you really cannot stop to chat. Goodbye,now!"

He pointed the cane he carried at her, and she vanished. No bang, no flash, no smoke. Simply vanished.

"Shit!" Harry observed. "What did you do to her!"

"Sent her away." The old man replied.

"Where?" Harry wanted to know.

The old man shrugged. "No idea, my boy. I wasn't thinking about a specific destination. Given that the globe is perhaps two-thirds covered in ocean, she has a one in three chance of ending up on dry land, hm? Anyway, Miss Oyama is a more than competent witch. She will make her way back to civilisation. Eventually."

The other black-robed figures were fleeing in assortment of ways – running, flying or simply disappearing – from the scene. The orange giant bellowed after them: "And stay away, yer miserable slugs!"

Harry drew a breath, then remembered the others. Without a word, he dashed back into the cottage, to see the Parkers all making their way slowly downstairs.

"We're OK Harry," said Uncle John, "a bit groggy, but fine. Are you OK?"

Harry nodded – his eyes and nose told him that they were shaken but sound – but his concern was for MacLeod. The tall man looked every bit as tough and formidable in death as he had in life, even with the expression of pain etched into his face. Harry knelt beside him, feeling broken. He had only known the man a short while, but had already developed a kind of bond with him. Even if he hadn't, the thought of the casual way he'd been murdered was enough to fill Harry with a cold anger.

He heard Aunt Martha hiss "You! Get out! Leave him alone!"

The strange old man's voice replied. "It's far too late for that, Mrs Parker. He's visible now, he can be found."

A long shadow fell over Harry and MacLeod's body. Harry looked up: "You're Mithradore, aren't you?"

The old man nodded. "_Doctor_ Mithradore, if you please, young man. Due respect, hm?"

Harry looked steadily at him. "You could have got here earlier." He said coldly. "They killed this man."

"Indeed," replied Mithradore, "and not for the first time. Commander MacLeod should be rejoining us shortly."

Harry gaped, then his preternatural hearing detected the incredible sound of MacLeod's heart beginning to beat again. The tall man drew a sudden breath, then opened his eyes and sat up. Harry scrambled to his feet, scared and astonished. MacLeod also climbed to his feet.

"Crap!" He remarked. "Even after four hundred years, you don't get used to that! I see you got here, Doctor?"

"Just in the nick of time." Mithradore replied. "Though I dare say you would have preferred us to arrive earlier, my old friend, hm?"

"What the _fuck_," Harry demanded, "is going on here?"

"Language, Harry!" Martha said automatically. MacLeod grinned up at her.

"I think you can let that one slide, Mrs Parker, under the circumstances. Harry, after everything else that's gone on, this will probably sound mundane, but the fact is that I'm an Immortal. I don't age, I don't die, and I'm well-nigh impossible to kill. I've been working for the British government since I was first hired by Sir Francis Walsingham in the reign of Elizabeth the First."

"Oh. Right." Harry shook his head. "So, we have wizards, Immortals, psychotic bitches with claws, and that orange...thing outside. Obviously, I've been missing a lot over the last eleven years. Aunt Martha, I could really do with a cup of coffee!"

They went into the kitchen. Aunt Martha made tea and coffee. They drank for a while in silence. John and Martha kept sending hostile glances towards Mithradore, who seemed impervious. Finally, John said heavily:

"You couldn't just leave it, could you, Doctor? You had to pull Harry into all this mess, just like his parents!"

Mithradore shook his head with a trace of sadness. "I am truly sorry, Mr Parker. There is nothing I would have liked more than for Harry here to live what you call a 'normal' life. But the fact is that he is not a Muggle, never has been. Had he merely inherited his father's Talent and magic, all might have been well. But it seems that he has inherited his magical skills more from his mother, and Lily was an exceptionally powerful witch. He would have had to come to us, simply to learn how to control that power, before he became a danger to himself and others.

"But it seems that there are other forces at work, here. Commander, can you confirm who it was that attacked Harry in the park two weeks ago?"

"The White Skull's people." MacLeod stated. "Brotherhood of the Serpent. Those white uniforms are a dead give-away."

"I see." Mithradore sighed. "That we might have expected - seizing young wizards and witches is an old play of theirs'. But tonight's attackers were a different kettle of fish altogether. They had all the characteristics of the supposedly defunct Death Eaters, Dr Morsmordre's adherents. The fact that they appear to have been lead by the formidable Bellatrix Oyama is even more disturbing.

"The White Skull may only have been trolling for new talent, as it were. Madame Silverclaw, however, will have had much more specific motives."

"She wanted to study me, find out how I'd done something. But I didn't understand what." Harry put in.

"All in good time, Harry." Mithradore said. "Mr and Mrs Parker, as I said, I deeply regret the necessity of doing this, but the fact is that Harry is no longer safe in your world. He must come to the Institute, where he can learn to protect himself. It is also the case that, with Harry absent, we can protect you and your son completely. Harry's abilities are like a beacon, a light that draws attention to him. Until he can learn to mute that light, none of you are safe."

Aunt Martha began to protest, but Harry cut her short by getting to his feet.

"No!" He said. "No more arguments. There's something going on here, and I'm smack in the middle of it. So I think I need to have a say in what goes on.

"I'm not ordinary, not normal. I need to find out about that. Somebody seems to want me dead. I need to find out about that as well, and how to protect myself. Dr Mithradore, if this Institute of yours is the place to do that, I need to go there. I just hope your teaching is better than your timing!

"Uncle John, Aunt Martha, Ben, you're my family, and I'll always love you, and I will be back. But I have to do this."

Dr Mithradore chuckled. "It is not so extreme as that, young man. As your aunt will doubtless tell you, the Institute is no different from any other boarding school. You will be able to write as often as you wish, and you will, of course, go home for the Yuletide and other holidays. We will be able to protect you for a short while, and before too long, you will know how to protect yourself, hm?"

"Fair enough." Harry acknowledged. "What happens now?"

"Well," Mithradore glanced out of the window, "as it is now morning, Commander MacLeod and I will convey you all back to your home, which has now been made secure.

"In the last week of August, Harry, you will be taken by Commander MacLeod to the starting point of your journey to the Institute. I will see you again when you arrive."

"Will we be safe?" John asked.

"As safe as we can make you." Mithradore replied. "But we can only hide Harry's location for a limited amount of time. It is vital that Harry is ready to leave at the appointed time, or all our precautions will fail."

After they had packed, Mithradore led them to an empty cottage nearby. In the living room stood a large, ornate cabinet made from some kind of dark wood.

"This is my Travelling Cabinet." Mithradore explained. "Do not be deceived by appearances, it is considerably more commodious inside."

The inside was like nothing any of them had seen before. To Harry, it looked more like a rather eccentric spaceship than anything magical. Mithradore fussed around some kind of control panel in the centre of the room. There was a whirring, whooshing sound, and some flashing lights. Then everything settled down again and Mithradore opened the doors onto the Parker's back garden.

"It is still early in the morning." He told them. "You will be able to slip into the house unobserved. You may then tell your neighbours that you travelled home overnight.

"Farewell for now, Harry. I will see you soon, I hope. We can, perhaps, establish a more suitable relationship then, hm?"

For the next few weeks, everyone tried not to think or talk about what was to come. All of them were uncomfortable about it in a number of ways, but at the same time, everyone understood why it had to happen.

Harry in particular had no doubts about what he had to do. His abilities were increasing by the day, and becoming more difficult to control or suppress. But he did wonder what he was getting into. He was not sure he trusted the enigmatic Mithradore, who had seemed reluctant to give any more information than he felt was strictly necessary. There was a lot Harry needed and wanted to know about his parents, their world, and the sinister, violent forces that seemed so interested in him. Mithradore had not been forthcoming at all, and that rankled. True, there was MacLeod, who Harry did trust, but the Immortal spy continued, apparently honestly, to plead ignorance on most of these matters.

Harry did learn that MacLeod's Office dealt regularly with two officials of the Silent Council, known as Black Glove and Scarlet Glove. Black Glove seemed to be the title of the head of the Council, whilst Scarlet Glove was some kind of chief of police. He found out that Mithradore had once been Black Glove for a while, but had surrendered the post to run the Institute. He also learned that Dr Morsmordre and his Death Eaters had been, in their hey-day, responsible for several mass murders of Muggles – as non-wizard people were called – all of which had been put down as terrorist attacks.

Harry carried on honing his stalking and free-running skills in the park and on the streets. He spent time with Ben, who said nothing about it, but was going to miss his cousin badly. He also made some time to spend with Siobhan, a pretty girl his own age who he had become friendly with at school. He had to tell her that he had won a scholarship, and would be going away to boarding school after the holidays, so that they wouldn't be seeing much of each other any more. Siobhan was a pragmatic girl who accepted this, and set herself to enjoy as much time in his company as possible before he left. Under any other circumstances it would have been an excellent summer. As it was, Harry was forced to acknowledge that it wasn't half bad!

Still, when the day finally came, it wasn't easy. Aunt Martha cried, of course, and Harry, Uncle John and Ben all had problems swallowing the lumps in their throats. But in the end, all the goodbyes had been said, and the promises to write had been made. Harry climbed into MacLeod's Aston Martin DB5 and set off on his first journey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Harry Logan and the Crystals of Power**

Chapter 3: A Journey

Harry had no idea where he was going, but MacLeod clearly had his instructions, turning away from London as soon as possible and bearing generally South-West. As they drove, and during their stops at various motorway services or roadside Little Chefs, MacLeod talked. His normally laconic matter seemed to hide the soul of a born raconteur, and Harry listened in fascination.

MacLeod had been born in a village in Scotland over four hundred years ago. At the age of seventeen, he had been chosen to join the war-band of the clan chieftain and had served with distinction for some years. Then in one particularly nasty battle he had taken what should have been a fatal wound, and survived. From that moment on, he had stopped ageing, though he was not to realise that until some time later. He had had more immediate problems.

"Things were so very different back then, Harry. Nowadays, the doctors and scientists would have taken me to some research centre and tried to fathom out how I was different. Back then, they just called in the priest to exorcise me, and drove me out of the clan."

MacLeod had worked his way South, serving as a mercenary, a bodyguard, or occasionally indulging in what he called 'a little light larceny'. Finally, he had come to London, which even then had been a kind of vortex, attracting the flotsam and jetsam of the country. There he had met a man called Will, who had hired him to do a couple of 'little jobs', and had been so impressed by MacLeod's performance that he had introduced him to Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth's feared spy-master.

"I've been a spy ever since." MacLeod told Harry. "All because that skinny little scribbler wanted someone scary-looking to back him up. It's not even as if he needed me. Master Shakespeare was as handy with a blade as he was with a quill!"

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted, "but are we talking about _the_ Will Shakespeare? The playwright?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't the other William Shakespeare, the grain merchant from Stratford-on-Avon!" MacLeod replied.

"You mean they aren't the same bloke?" Harry was a bit taken aback.

"Not unless he could manage to be in two places at once!" MacLeod pointed out. "It wasn't until the Nineteenth Century that people started connecting Shakespeare the playwright with Stratford-on-Avon. I dare say it helps the tourist trade, and you should never let facts get in the way of business. Will told me that when he wrote all that nonsense about Richard the Third."

There was a deal more of this kind of thing. Harry realised that the history he'd learned at school was not always the full story, or even part of it.

But the journey eventually came to an end, in the early afternoon, at a small, deserted cove on the South coast. MacLeod parked on the grass near the beach and helped Harry unload his luggage.

"Right, this is where we part company, Harry." He said gravely. "Somebody will be along to pick you up shortly, but I have to be gone first. It seems there are things here I don't need to know.

"So, good luck, my young friend. Keep honing those skills, and pay attention! You never know what might be important or useful, so don't ignore things."

"Will I see you again?" Harry asked, and MacLeod nodded.

"I'll still be responsible for keeping an eye on your family, so I'll see you in the holidays."

They shook hands, and MacLeod got back into the car, waved and drove off the way he had come. Harry sat down on his suitcase to wait.

He didn't wait long. A large sailing ship seemed to appear out of nowhere and dropped anchor in the cove. A rowing boat was lowered over the side and a figure climbed down into it and rowed rapidly to shore. Harry thought for a while that his eyes had somehow gone wrong - either the boat was far too small or the man in it was huge.

The debate was solved as the boat beached and the man climbed out of it and strode up the beach toward Harry. He was about eight feet tall, and broad in proportion, wearing a long duster coat over jeans and heavy boots. He had a mass of wild black hair and was heavily-bearded, and as he came nearer, Harry realised it was indeed the orange-skinned giant from Scotland.

The giant came straight up to Harry and looked down at him. Harry saw that he wore no shirt and that his skin was indeed orange, and had a rock-like texture. His eyes were jet-black, steady and twinkling with kindly humour.

"Harry Logan, right?" The giant said in gravelly tones. "Name's Rubeus Grimm, Groundskeeper and watchman at the Hogsblood Institute, and gen'ral factotum to Dr Mithradore."

He extended a massive, three-fingered hand to Harry and shook hands with great care. His skin had the feel of sun-warmed rock and Harry could sense the immense power there.

Unable to think of anything else to say, Harry asked. "What's a factotum?"

Grimm chuckled. "A factotum is the poor daft bugger who does the work that don't fall into anyone else's job description."

Harry grinned back. "Like picking up waifs and strays?" He asked.

Grimm shook his head. "More like picking up ultra-top-secret, missing presumed dead heroes."

Harry blinked. "You want to run that by me again?"

The giant sighed, which for Harry was a little like being caught in a hurricane. A beer-flavoured hurricane. "Nobody told yer? Bloody idiots! Tryin' to protect yer, I s'pose.

"Well, can't be helped. Let's get aboard, Harry, and I'll fill yer in on what I can on the way to Atlantis."

Harry climbed into the rowing boat, Grimm tossed his suitcase in, shoved off and leapt aboard with an agility that belied his bulk. Picking up the oars, he rowed back to the larger ship at some speed.

"I thought Atlantis sank?" Harry ventured.

"Only about two-thirds of it." Grimm said matter-of-factly. "Makes it easier to hide what's left."

By which time they had reached the side of the larger ship. A grey rope ladder snaked down the side. "Up yer go, Harry!" urged Grimm.

Harry found the ladder easy to cope with and was soon standing on a deck of clean white wood, facing a tall man dressed in grey. Well, not quite a man. The figure was tall, slender, dark-haired and pale-skinned with pointed ears and clear sea-blue eyes that studied Harry with a kind of remote kindliness. He spoke in a musical tenor.

"Harry Logan, _mae govannen_, well met! I am Haldir, Master of the _Jubilation of Osse_, welcome aboard. You will find all that you require below, but I regret that only a few of my crew speak your tongue.

"Grimm, we must make sail swiftly. The longer we remain, the greater the likelihood of being seen. Belike the Children of Men will mistake this vessel for some pleasure craft, but other eyes may be watching."

Grimm had swarmed up the rope ladder in a way that was a testament to its strength, given how much he must weigh. Now he turned from where he had been watching some crewmen winch the boat up.

"Righto, Haldir. Just let me get the lad's case. C'mon Harry, we'd best get below for now. We can come up on deck later, when we're nearer Atlantis."

They went below into a roomy cabin. There were only a few small portholes, but several crystal lamps stopped the place from being gloomy. The table was laid with food and Harry, like most lads his age, was permanently hungry, so at a nod from Grimm, he sat down and fell to at once. There were thick ham sandwiches, bread and cheese, chicken drumsticks and quite the largest custard tart Harry had ever seen, all washed down with a purplish fruit drink that Harry didn't recognise, but which he found delicious. Grimm sat opposite him and tucked in even more heartily, except that instead of the fruit drink, he frequently replenished a large mug from a short barrel of dark, foaming ale.

It wasn't until they got as far as the tart that Harry's curiosity overcame his hunger. "The crew..." He began, but Grimm had anticipated the question.

"Ljossalfar." He said. "There're still some Alfar living on Atlantis. The Ljossalfar are a bit formal, not exactly cheery types, but yer can trust them with yer life if they take to yer. T'others, the Dokkalfar, are more friendly-like, but... well, if yer shake hands with a Dokkalfar, count yer fingers after! Another cut in?"

Harry nodded and pushed his plate across, then said. "You promised to tell me what was going on?"

"I did didn't I?" Grimm pushed Harry's plate back, laden with another hefty slice of custard tart, then rubbed at his beard. "Well, I'll tell yer what I can, but I don't know everything, not by a long chalk, there's only two blokes who do.

"Look, yer know about the Shadow World, and about wizards and that, right? Enough to be going on with, anyway. Now yer Dad, James Logan, was born into an old wizard family, but yer Mam, Lily Evans, was Muggle-born, that happens quite a bit. They both went to the Institute, met there, fell in love, got married, had you. Ordinary story, right?

"Only they wasn't ordinary times, Harry, not by a long chalk. Yer see, wizards are just people, and they aren't all nice, and back then, one of the worst of all was around. His name was Dr Viktor Morsmordre, and he was just about the nastiest piece of work yer'd ever want to meet. What them Muggle head-doctors call a 'cycle-path' or somethin'."

"Psychopath." Harry supplied around a mouthful of tart.

"Somethin' like that, yeah." Grimm allowed. "Any rate, he had a gang called themselves Death Eaters. They were settin' up to take over the Shadow World first, then the rest of the world. Well, the Silent Council knew there was goin' to be trouble, and there was only one wizard with enough clout to take on Morsmordre. So they made Dr Albus Mithradore the Black Glove. The Boss didn't like it, not one bit, but he'd no choice really. Looked like we were in fer a nasty civil war.

"Now, yer have to understand, Harry, that I don't know too much about what went on higher up. I was a young wizard just out of trainin' myself when this happened to me." He thumped his chest, producing a sharp tapping sound. "Long story, and I don't talk about it. But the upshot is, I don't do much magic any more. Not that I can't, but I keep breakin' wands! Drives Ollie mad, but that's another story again, and yer'll meet Ollie yerself soon enough. What I'm tryin' to say is that I was just a footslogger until they made me Mithradore's personal minder.

"We was huntin' high and low for Morsmordre, but he was a slippery bastard, and he wouldn't face Mithradore. His people were doin' a lot of damage -terrorism, really – and though we caught a lot of 'em, half of 'em didn't know where he was and the rest weren't talkin'.

"Then all of a sudden, Morsmordre changed tack. At first, we didn't realise what he was up to, but then we realised he was huntin' down and killin' every member of the Logan family -your family. By the time we cottoned on, there was only your folks and you left.

"Dr Mithradore went racin' off to warn 'em or help 'em without tellin' anyone. But by the time he got there, it were all over. The house were in ruins, both yer parents was dead, yer was badly hurt and Morsmordre were gone! I mean vanished.

"Best we could figure out were, he'd broken in, tried to kill James, killed yer Mam, then tried to kill yer. But somethin' went wrong and his curse bounced back onto him. Then yer Dad, who weren't quite dead, shot at him."

"Yeah," Harry said, "I know the rest. The shot set off a gas explosion, whole place went up."

"Right," Grimm nodded. "Well, with the Doc gone, the Death Eaters fell apart, or went underground. Everybody thought it were over. Mithradore resigned the Black Glove and went back to the Institute. Asked me to come with him, so I did.

"But Mithradore never believed Morsmordre were dead, or that the Death Eaters had completely vanished. So instead of fosterin' yer with a wizard family -there were dozens who'd have taken yer in – he sent yer to yer Muggle relatives. Let the rest of the Shadow World think yer was dead. Up til now, only Mithradore, the Council, Professor Darkholme, me and Dante Black knew yer was still alive.

"Looks like he were right, too, 'cause them was Death Eaters came fer yer in Scotland the other week."

Harry had one more pressing question. "Where does this White Skull fit in?"

Grimm shrugged. "Who knows? He never worked fer Morsmordre, though we did think he were sellin' him stuff -weapons and magical items. The Skull's got his own little plans, and nobody but him knows what they might be."

Grimm couldn't or wouldn't say much more, and between the food, the gentle rocking of the ship and the fact that he'd been up since the crack of dawn, Harry was more than a little sleepy. Grimm showed him to smaller cabin, equipped with a narrow but comfortable bunk, and Harry gratefully crashed out.

He slept a lot longer than he'd intended, in fact, and it was early morning when he woke. Harry was one of those people who came awake immediately, a fact that had frequently irritated his cousin, who woke up as a Neanderthal and tended to spend breakfast in a state of rapid evolution back into _Homo Sapiens_. This was advantageous now, though, as his strange surroundings only disoriented him for a minute or two. He made his way back into the larger cabin, where a silent crewman, apparently alerted by his soft tread, fetched in a bowl and a jug of steaming water, then busied himself laying the table for a substantial breakfast while Harry washed. As he ate, he wondered why he had been so tired, then realised that for the last few weeks, he'd been sleeping with one eye open, alert to every sound in case it presaged another attack. Here on the ship, his subconscious must have realised he was safe, and allowed his body to get a full measure of rest.

After breakfast, Harry went up on deck. The day was a fine one, with enough wind to move the ship at a good clip without making the sea too choppy. The crew were going about their work with a quiet efficiency, talking among themselves in their musical tongue. Those who Harry passed close to greeted him courteously, with an inclination of the head and the right hand placed over the heart, saying "_Mae govannen_." as Haldir had first done. Harry's quick ear allowed him to pick up the pronunciation and he was able to respond in kind, an action which won him wide smiles.

He made his way to the prow of the ship, looking out over the water. This was the first time he had ever been aboard a real ship, and he was pleased to note that he didn't feel even a little sick. After a while, Captain Haldir came forward and joined him.

"This must be strange for you, Harry Logan." The Ljossalfar remarked. "Muggles rarely travel in this fashion nowadays. Also, you are far from home and bound on a journey you cannot know the end of."

Harry sighed. "I ought to be more worried, I suppose. But for some reason, this all feels right, you know?"

Haldir nodded. "The blood of your forefathers calls to you, and the earth of your native land."

"I was born in Atlantis?" Harry asked.

"Indeed," Haldir replied, "though your mother was not. She travelled to Atlantis on this very vessel, with a group of young Muggle-borns. I remember her well."

Harry had already guessed that these Alfar were what some people called Elves, and so was not surprised that Haldir claimed to be far older than he appeared. But he somehow felt that it would be, if not impolite, then perhaps inappropriate, to question a stranger about a young girl he had met so many years ago. Instead, he responded to another part of Haldir's statement.

"As for a journey I don't know the end of... Well, that's just life, isn't it?"

Haldir smiled. "For Men, I understand, it is so. Not so for the Alfar. We Ljossalfar, and our shadow-brethren, the Dokkalfar, each know our own Wyrd, our part in the Great Music. We are born into that knowledge. Those of us who study such things can see also a part of the Wyrd of others, even of other peoples, where it touches ours."

"You know your future?" Harry asked, fascinated.

"Not in each daily detail." Haldir told him. "We are like those who travel upon a road. We know where it will take us, what places it must pass through, and some at least of the turnings it will take. But we cannot tell who or what we shall meet with on the way, who our travelling companions will be, or what we will do in the places we pass through."

Harry absorbed this without speaking, looking out at sea and sky again. Then he pointed. "Gulls!" He said. "Doesn't that mean we're close to land?"

"It does." Haldir acknowledged. "We draw near to Atlantis, and the port of Swanhaven. You have studied sea-lore, Harry Logan, to know what these birds indicate?"

Harry shook his head. "Read it in a book, or saw it on TV, I think.

"Y'know, most Muggles think Atlantis is a myth, and even those that don't mostly believe it's gone!"

"A subterfuge of necessity." Haldir admitted. "The powers that were unleashed and sank most of Atlantis bred great fear among the Men of the outer world. Had they known any part of the Island still existed, they would have attacked to rid the world of the threat that magic posed. Those who survived the cataclysm would have been unable to withstand them. So they hid the place, and ever since it has been a haven for Wizards, and for peoples like my own, who find no place or safety among ordinary Men."

Haldir paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held a deeper gravity than before. "Twice now, Harry Logan, has my Wyrd touched that of your bloodline. Among a people so long-lived as ours, who in a lifetime measured in millennia follow many callings, such things are not taken lightly. Even if it were not so, your conduct this morning, making the effort to greet my crew after the fashion and in the tongue of our kind, mark you out as a man of courtesy and good will. Few even among Wizards are so accepting of another people.

"For this reason, and for others which as yet I cannot explain, I say to you this, Harry Logan. If ever you stand in need of aid from any Alf, it shall be yours for the asking. Our Loremasters speak of a great crescendo in the Music, a meeting of many Wyrds in both Harmony and Discord. My heart tells me that you will have a part in this, Harry Logan. My hope is that when your time comes, you will stand for Harmony."

More than a little nonplussed by this, Harry managed a muttered thanks. Haldir didn't seem to mind, instead indicating that they should go aft, as the shore was already in sight and the crew needed to prepare the ship to dock. They went back to the quarterdeck, where they found Grimm waiting.

"What now?" Harry asked.

"Well, we get docked, then go into town." Grimm told him. "Yer train don't leave while tomorrow, so we'll stop the night here. Yer've got shoppin' to do anyway!"

Harry grimaced. Shopping was not one of his favourite things.

By this time the Alfar vessel had brought them to the opening of Swanhaven Harbour. It was, Harry guessed, a natural harbour around which a town had grown, pretty much as these things did in his world. But it wasn't like any town Harry had ever seen. The massive quays, for instance, appeared to be made of white marble. Beyond them was an area of what Harry took to be warehouses, workshops and offices. Behind that, the town climbed a slight slope and seemed to be a mass of winding streets, intersected by a few broad thoroughfares. Over to one side, he could see a large railway siding, with numerous steam engines chugging back and forth.

While he was taking all this in, the _Jubilation of Osse_ had been met by a small, steam-driven craft and led to one of the white quays. A gangway was lowered and Haldir gestured for Harry and Grimm to follow him. At the foot of the gangway, three figures waited. One was as tall as Haldir, with the same slender frame and cast of face, but his skin was ebony black and the long hair he tied back in a ponytail was pure white, while his eyes were golden. Without having to ask, Harry knew that this was a Dokkalfar. The second figure stood just about four feet tall, but was stockily-built, with thick dark hair and moustache, golden skin and dark eyes. The third person stood slightly behind and to one side of the others. She was also Dokkalfar, very pretty, with a thick mane of snowy hair, and looked to be about Harry's age.

As they drew near, the Dokkalfar man stepped forward and swept Haldir into an enthusiastic hug.

"Haldir! _Mae govannen_, cousin! How went the voyage?" He cried.

It was clear that this was a habitual greeting – Grimm had told Harry the Dokkalfar were friendly – and Haldir seemed to submit to it with a little embarrassment but no resentment. He disengaged himself and spoke to Grimm and Harry.

"This is my shadow-cousin Amroth, who is Compradore for our House here on the Bund. It is he who you must pay for the passage. Amroth, these are Rubeus Grimm and Harry Logan."

Amroth greeted them both warmly, though his eyebrows raised at the mention of Harry's name, and he gave the lad a measuring stare. Then he smiled and gestured to the girl who stood behind him, bringing her forward. "This is my daughter, Faelivrin, most prized of my jewels."

Faelivrin took Harry's proffered hand in both of hers and pressed it warmly, murmuring "_Mae govannen,_" in a soft, sweet voice. She seemed in no hurry to release the hand she held, instead moving to stand close beside Harry as the adults talked.

Grimm handed a leather bag to Amroth. "It's all there," he rumbled, "the passage for me and the lad. Yer can count it if yer wants."

Amroth laughed merrily. "Your word, and the name of the Hogsblood Institute, are enough for me, Grimm! Willem here may be harder to satisfy!"

The small, golden-skinned man inclined his head. "Greetings, Citizen Grimm. I hight Willem Duram, Mercer, Prime Circle and Bundsman of Swanhaven. Do you bring ought else than yourself and Young Citizen Logan with you?"

"Just the lad's things." Grimm allowed. "D'yer need to see 'em?"

"Personal items are not my concern." Duram stated briskly. "If you bring nought by way of commerce, then we are done.

"Master Haldir, I would view the rest of your cargo, an it please you."

Haldir and Duram moved back to the gangway. Amroth shook his head. "Gnomes!" He said in mock exasperation. "I'd best get after Haldir and make sure our good Bundsman doesn't over-tax him. Faelivrin, let young Harry go, now, he needs to be moving on!"

Faelivrin gave Harry's hand a last squeeze, made a little _moue_ and went over to her father. But she kept her eyes fixed on Harry's until Grimm indicated that they should move on.

"You didn't tell me Dokkalfar were that friendly!" Harry told Grimm as they headed for the main part of the town.

"The lass did seem taken with yer." Grimm noted. "But I'd not take it too seriously, Harry. Dokkalfar spread 'emselves about a bit."

Harry chuckled. "Hey! Just turned eleven, remember? I'm not about to fall hopelessly in love just yet. Way I hear it, that doesn't happen till you're about fourteen."

"And then it happens every week or so!" Grimm laughed.

Swanhaven was quite a large town, so it was a while before they reached their destination, a quiet-looking inn called _The Leaky Cauldron_. "This here's a Wizard inn," Grimm explained "mostly Wizards stay here, but anybody can come in for a drink, like.

"I've booked us a couple of rooms, so we'll drop yer case off, then grab some lunch and go shoppin'."

The place was a sort of cross between a large pub and a small bed-and-breakfast, run by a gloomy-looking individual Grimm addressed as Tom. Tom's wife, Babs, was the opposite of her husband, bubbling over with cheerfulness as she served them a hearty lunch.

Afterwards, Grimm led Harry to one of the large, broad streets that cut through the town. It was lined with shops, some quite ordinary -supermarkets, clothes shops, bookshops, department stores and so forth. Others, however, were less so, specialising in things such as 'Alchemical Supplies", "Ritual Paraphernalia", or "Bespoke Talismans".

"Bank first!" Grimm declared, leading Harry to the arched doorway of an impressive grey stone building. A brass plaque beside the door declared the place to be "Durin & Co. Banking and Investments". On one side of the door stood a life-size and life-like representation of a manlike figure about five feet tall and almost equally wide. He wore chainmail and a close-fitting helmet out of which a blunt face glowered from behind a long, forked beard. He held a business-like battleaxe across his chest.

What made it hard for Harry not to laugh was the living person who stood on the other side of the door, and whose build, height, beard and facial expression were a bob-double for the statue. Having said that, Harry managed not to chuckle aloud, given that the live guard wore what appeared to be Kevlar body-armour, a modern helmet with a transparent visor, and had an extremely large revolver holstered at his side.

"Durin's is the biggest and oldest of the Dwarf banks." Grimm told Harry as they went inside. "Some folk swear by Gnome banks, but fer security, yer can't beat Dwarfs."

Banks were banks, wherever you were, Harry decided, as he looked around the large hall. Marble floors, stone pillars, dark wood desks and counters. Of course, the crowd milling around wasn't exactly what you'd find in your average city centre branch of NatWest! There were people in ordinary clothes, and others who wore garments ranging from long robes through Regency to Nineteenth Century outfits. There were Alfar of both kinds, Gnomes and the slightly larger folk Harry now realised must be Dwarfs. There were also, he noted, a number of families, many with kids about his age, all looking harassed and excited.

Grimm led him to a counter marked "Trusts and Long Term Investments". Behind the desk sat another Dwarf, in what looked like a black frock coat and pinstripe trousers, working at a computer. Well, Harry assumed it was a computer, though from what he could see, the monitor was in an elaborately-carved wooden cabinet and the keys the Dwarf tapped on appeared to be ivory. Grimm handed over an envelope. The Dwarf read what was inside it, then picked up what seemed to be a speaking-tube and said into it "Mr Dwalin to Trusts Desk. Customer waiting." Shortly after that, another Dwarf, rather older, more portly, but similarly dressed arrived, engaged in a short colloquy with his colleague, examined the letter, then stepped round the desk and spoke to Harry.

"Greetings, young Master Logan. Dwalin at your service." He bowed, and Harry responded. The Dwarf led him to a nearby desk in a quiet alcove and gestured him to sit. Grimm hovered a discreet distance away. The Dwarf spoke without preamble.

"Given the circumstances, I assume that you know very little of your financial affairs in the Shadow World, Master Harry. All you need to know at the moment is that the property and wealth of the entire Logan family - of which you are the last scion – was placed in trust for you. I am the Executive Trustee of that trust, the others being Dr Albus Mithradore and Mr Dante Black.

"As Executive Trustee, it is my task to administer the trust and to see that funds are provided for you when you need them. The trust has been, and continues to, accumulate interest, naturally. From that interest I am required to provide for any large expenses and a reasonable monthly allowance. This lasts until you are seventeen, at which age you gain full control of the interest income. At twenty-one, of course, the principal will revert to you.

"For now, however, you will require attire and equipment for school, and I dare say the clothing you brought with you will not prove adequate for your needs until Yuletide. Now let me see..."

He scribbled on a pad in front of him for a while, then began to fill in a slip.

"Seventy-five Nobles, to begin with, Master Harry. Seventy Nobles will be more than enough to purchase your school equipment, and five Nobles is a generous monthly allowance for a lad your age.

"Take this slip to the cashier. Here is my card, you may write me at any time for any reasonable request. I will see to it that your allowance is delivered monthly either to the Institute, or in Muggle money -pounds sterling, I believe - to your home. Take care to buy the best, Master Harry, I did not give you this amount for you to waste it on cheap rubbish!"

As Grimm led him out of the Bank, he told Harry. "Right, yer text-books, exercise books and that will all be provided by the school. So will yer special equipment. Yer'll have ter buy some of that at the school shop, mind. But some stuff we have to get here."

First there was a school outfitters. The Hogsblood Institute clearly preferred a more traditional style of uniform than the Comprehensive Harry had expected to go to. No polo shirts and sweaters here! Four pairs of black trousers, two blazers with school crest, four pullovers, ten white shirts, a tie and two pairs of shoes ("Black, lace-up, self-polishing." The assistant told him.). There was a also a black overcoat, for cold weather, a mac for wet and an academic gown "for formal wear". Then he had to get basic PE gear – shorts, vests, tracksuits, plimsolls and trainers, and two white lab coats. Finally a dufflebag for sports gear and a traditional satchel "Briefcases are not permitted until the Sixth Year.".

"Right!" Grimm decided. "Time to get yer most important bit of kit, Harry! Let's go see Ollie!"

The shop was just off the main drag, sandwiched between a bookshop called "Arcane Incunabula" and an odd little place called "Needful Things". The sign read "Ollivander LaForge: Maker and Purveyor of Wands, Rods and Staves."

"In yer go, Harry!" Grimm instructed, "Ollie won't want me hangin' about while he fits yer fer yer first wand. I'll meet yer at the corner in a bit!"

The shop was quite small, Harry noted, with a tiny counter. The entire lace was lined with shelves, most of which held boxes similar to the ones school-issue descant recorders came in. On one side was a rack of wooden rods, about eighteen inches long and sturdy-looking, and next to them a smaller rack of heavy staves, ranging from five to seven feet long.

"Ahh..hello? Shop?" Harry called.

"One moment!" A voice came from the back of the shop, and a moment later a man appeared. He looked to be in his late fifties, a tall, slender black man with greying hair and a thin face. He appeared to be wearing some kind of blindfold, a strip of golden cloth bound around his eyes, but with a single eye embroidered in the middle of it. He grinned at Harry.

"Come for your first wand, right? I'm Ollivander LaForge, and you are...?"

"Harry Logan."

"Of course you are!" LaForge's grin widened. "Been expecting you since Rubeus told me he was bringing you. The Logans always bought their wands from the LaForges; for that matter, so did your Mum!

"Now, let's have a look at you..."

"You can see me?" Harry couldn't help asking.

"Huh? Oh, the cloth! I was born blind, Harry. All the LaForges are. It's a very ancient bargain we struck with Thoth, thousands of years ago. We sacrifice normal sight to have these cloths that let us see other things. It's how we can see what wood can be made into a wand, rod or staff, and what kind of core a wand needs to have. More than that, it lets us see Wizards in a way that allows us to match them to the right wand. Some wands are for life, you see, but other times the Wizard will grow out of one wand into another.

"Now then, Harry Logan. Tough as old boots, quick as a ferret, smart as a whip. Hot temper, sharp tongue, but basically decent. And something else..."

LaForge went over to the shelves, took out a box and opened it, handing Harry a thick, stubby wand. Harry took it, but it didn't feel right in his hand. "Too short," muttered LaForge, and handed Harry a longer, thinner wand. This one shuddered in his grip and started to whine like an overtaxed engine. LaForge snatched it back, quickly. "Not strong enough!" He declared. This went on for some time, with various wands being declared "Too sensitive", "Too brittle", "Too whippy" and so on until LaForge suddenly paused and said "I wonder. It'd be scary, but appropriate...". He reached up to a high shelf and brought down a box that had evidently lain untouched for some time.

"I remember every wand I ever made and sold." He told Harry. "This one is eleven inches long and nicely supple. It's made from holly and has a phoenix feather for a core. I've only ever had two phoenix feathers, both from the same bird, both a long time ago. This is one of them. Give it a try."

Harry took the wand, and realised it felt right in his hand - the wood was warm where his strong fingers pressed it, and the balance was exact to his heft. The wand suddenly spouted a shower of red and gold sparks from the end.

"The right wand for every Wizard." LaForge murmured. "I should have known that this wand was yours, Harry. The other feather went into a yew wand that was bought by a young lad who stood just where you're standing now, many years ago. That other wand was the one that killed your parents, Harry, and that young man was Viktor Morsmordre,.

"You don't have to take that wand, Harry. I can always find you another, but it will always be second best."

Harry looked at the wand in his hand, then up at LaForge. "This wand didn't kill my parents," he said solemnly, "and neither did the other, not really. Wands don't kill people, people kill people. Anyway, I think this is what the Alfar would call part of my Wyrd. I'll take it."

LaForge inclined his head. "I see great things in your future, Harry. Not all of them will be fun, but I think they'll be great."

Harry paid for the wand. "I'd gladly give it you," LaForge told him, "but all magic has a price, and of all sacrifices, money is the least costly."

When Harry met back up with Grimm, the big man was carrying a birdcage. Inside was a very large, very black, singularly intelligent-looking, raven.

"Bit late fer a birthday present, Harry, but here yer go!" Grimm told him. "Yer allowed a pet at school. Most kids have owls or cats, but I saw this bird and somehow thought of yer."

The bird cocked its head and considered Harry with a bright black eye, then gave a sardonic croak. Harry grinned. "I think I'll call you 'Quoth'." He decided. "Quoth the Raven."

Quoth looked slightly disgusted with the whole idea, but didn't say anything.


	4. Chapter 4

**Harry Logan and the Crystals of Power**

Chapter 4: Assorted Meetings

Harry and Grimm returned to the _Leaky Cauldron _in time to have a break before dinner. Harry spent the time arranging his new purchases in a trunk which he had also purchased. The only thing he didn't pack was his wand, following Ollivander LaForge's advice to keep it on him as much as possible: "The more you keep it close to you, the better it will work for you.".

Then he settled down to read a newspaper he'd found lying around downstairs. It was called the _Daily Prophet_ and reminded him a little of the _Daily Mail_ -a newspaper his aunt and uncle cordially despised. The first thing he noticed was that the photographs, all of which were in colour, actually moved. It was a little disturbing, since Harry couldn't at first shake the feeling that the people in the photos could see _him_. The one on the front page showed a tallish man, rather plump but with a stern face, dressed in dark robes and wearing an elaborate black glove on his right hand, talking and gesticulating, though there was no sound. The headline read: _Fudge Defends New Appointment._ The article went on to talk about the sacking of a man called Erik Scrimgeour from the post of Scarlet Glove, and his replacement by a woman named Dolores Frost.

Harry couldn't make much of it, given that he still knew little or nothing about the government and politics of the Shadow World. He knew that the Black Glove was the leader of the Silent Council, and assumed that the glove Fudge wore so prominently was the garment in question. Beyond that, the Scarlet Glove seemed to have something to do with people called Inquisitors (a word with decidedly sinister implications) and Aurors (which meant nothing to Harry).

He browsed the rest of the paper, unsure whether to be disappointed or relieved at the absence of a topless and mobile Page Three Girl. There was an editorial demanding a Dragon cull; it seemed that efforts to conserve the beasts had been too successful, and their increasing numbers were liable to overtax the magic that kept them on their reserve. A leading article by a prominent wizard deplored the dangerous idealism of the Open Door Movement, who wanted to put an end to the separation of the Shadow World from the muggle world. Harry also found a humorous article about the rescue of a favourite tree which had been carried off by a playful giant cat.

There was clearly a lot for Harry to figure out about his new world. Best for now to keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut. Grimm had been willing to answer a lot of questions – Harry now knew that ten copper pennies made a silver mark, ten marks made a gold noble and five nobles made a platinum royal – but he didn't want to pester the orange giant with too many questions. There would be a limit to his kindliness and patience, after all.

"I'll just have to figure things out for myself." Harry told Quoth. "I'm counting on you to keep me out of trouble!"

Quoth made a sound that might have been a dry chuckle, and flared his wings. Harry sighed. The bird was right, staying out of trouble had never been his strong point!

Over dinner, Harry said to Grimm. "I noticed a lot of families with school-age kids in town this afternoon, but there aren't any here. Did you bring me here because of that? To keep things quiet because of who I am?"

"Nah," Grimm shook his head, "I always stay here when I'm in town, Harry, that's all. As fer the other kids, well, nobody comes here by ship much any more. Used ter be the only way fer muggle-borns to get here, but about ten years ago, that changed.

"Yer see, we can use magic to power steamboats and trains and suchlike, but not airy-planes, fer some reason. But we can use dirigibles. Trouble were, the muggles was usin' airy-planes more and more.

"Then a few years back, some muggles started usin' airships again. So now, most muggle-borns come to Atlantis by dirigible, and stay at the Helium Hotel by the aerodrome. Them as lives here in Atlantis come by train, like.

"Yer'll meet yer schoolmates tomorrow, on the train."

As they ate, the place began to fill up with an assortment of humans (Harry assumed they were all wizards), Dokkalfar and Gnomes. Harry noticed there were no Ljossalfar or Dwarfs, and asked Grimm about it.

"Well, no." Grimm explained. "The Ljossalfar aren't exactly yer pub-goin' types, Harry, and Dwarfs keep pretty much to themselves."

At that moment a voice called, "Harry!" and a small figure in a short white dress scampered over to the table and sat down. It was Faelivrin, the Dokkalfar girl he'd met at the docks that morning. Harry glanced around and saw Amroth near the bar. The Dokkalfar merchant gave Harry a friendly wave and a wink, and went back to talking with a Gnome.

Faelivrin began to chatter away brightly, plying Harry with questions about England, and his home and school. After a while, Grimm got up, smiling to himself, and went over to the bar. Faelivrin was fun to be around, she had an infectious grin, a silvery giggle and a wicked sense of humour. She and Harry amused themselves by taking the mickey out of various people in the pub, until some music started and people began to go onto the small dance-floor.

"Dance with me, Harry?" Faelivrin begged. Harry hadn't done much dancing, but didn't want to disappoint her, so allowed he'd give it a try. He didn't do too badly, in fact he did quite well, right up to the moment when Amroth suddenly appeared out of nowhere and they realised it was getting late.

"Time to go, young lady!" He told his daughter genially, then turned to Harry. "Thank you, Harry, for entertaining Faelivrin so well. It's always good to make new friends!"

Amroth ruffled Harry's hair affectionately, the way his uncle sometimes did. But Faelivrin stepped close to Harry, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. The kiss was nothing like Harry had experienced before. Siobhan had always kept her mouth closed when they kissed, and while Harry had sensed that this wasn't quite right, he hadn't known how to broach the issue with her. Faelivrins' lips were parted, however, and it made the whole sensation softer and much closer to expectations. Also, her slender body against him and strong arms around his neck felt very good. She smelled nice as well. Altogether a most satisfactory experience. Even more so when, the lingering kiss over, she whispered against his cheek, "I'll see you again, Harry, I promise." Amroth, who seemed completely unfazed by his daughter's behaviour, bore her off with another good-natured wink to Harry.

Harry made his way back to the table he and Grimm had been sitting at. The orange man gave him a sly look.

"Had a good time then?" He asked.

"I've certainly had worse!" Harry averred. "But right now I could do with getting my head down."

"Good idea. I'll give yer a knock in the mornin'. We'll need to get off early, train leaves at nine."

Tired as he was, it took Harry a while to get to sleep. He wasn't normally of a nervous disposition, but the thought of the next day was daunting. His expectation had been to go to the same comprehensive school as Ben. He wouldn't have been relying on his older cousin as a bodyguard, but the knowledge that he was there would have been an anchor. So would the familiar faces from junior school who would have started with him. But now, he was far away from home, and would know nobody. He would be meeting people with whom he had nothing in common except what made him different. That was almost a paradox in itself. Then again, he was a young, healthy lad who'd had a long day, so the weirdest of thoughts couldn't stop him sleeping for too long.

The following morning, after an early breakfast, Harry and Grimm loaded their luggage into the back of a vehicle that looked like a cross between a limousine and a pick-up truck. Like everything else Harry had seen here, the road traffic was an odd assortment. There were carts, and what looked like hansom cabs, drawn by an odd variety of beasts - horses, oxen, unicorns, pegasi and what looked for all the world like miniature triceratops. Then there were motorised vehicles, cars and trucks, in all kinds of styles, shapes and sizes, and driven by different means; steam, petrol, electricity or pure magic.

The vehicle they were in ran smoothly enough, but the sounds it made put Harry in mind of a slightly hysterical kettle. The driver was a taciturn Gnome who seemed to think that concepts such as speed limits and right of way were things that happened to other people. Harry found the ride more than a little hair-raising, and Grimm, who Harry guessed must be almost indestructible, clung to the sides of the truck in near-panic!

"I can't," the big man growled under his breath, "Be doin' with gnome drivers!"

Swanhaven, like many coastal towns, was backed by hills which hid the country behind, so that when they crested the hill, Harry saw something he'd never glimpsed before. A valley spread out below them, neatly sliced in two by the road.

On one side, there was a large, glass and wrought iron edifice that could only be a railway station, with a mass of lines, sidings, train sheds and so forth. Fascinated, Harry noted that all the locomotives were in fact steam ones. They and the rolling stock they pulled seemed to come in three liveries, scarlet and gold, green and gold, or blue and silver.

But what was on the other side of the roads was completely new to Harry. There was an expanse, larger than several football fields, of well-mown meadow. On this were built about fifty tall, slender pylons. Each pylon had a doughnut-shaped lift around it, whilst at the very top was a small cabin. Some of the pylons had large, silver airships moored to the tops.

As Harry watched, another dirigible approached one of the pylons. Harry noted that the lift was already at the top, and that a rigid walkway extended out of it on the side the airship was coming from. As the dirigible came close to the tower, its great propellors slowed and stopped, and it drifted gently forward, turning gracefully to come broadside on to the pylon. A small figure in the upper cabin made a gesture, and a long rope floated out toward the gondola of the airship, where a crew-member apparently made it fast. As Harry watched, astonished, the airship was deftly warped in to the pylon so that the main hatch of the gondola mated exactly with the stubby walkway of the lift.

"Swanhaven Aerodrome." Grimm told him. "Largest aerodrome in Atlantis. This is where most muggle-borns arrive in Atlantis. Yer'll probably come this way yerself in future."

Harry noted that whilst the big airships were undoubtedly the most spectacular aircraft using the facility, there were others. Individuals zoomed around sitting on what appeared to be old-fashioned brooms, while small groups came in and out on carpets of varying sizes. _Broomsticks and magic carpets,_ Harry thought, _why am I not surprised?_ But another class of vehicle caught his eye. About the size of a light plane, these craft flew by flapping their wings in the manner of giant birds.

"What in the world are those things?" He asked.

Grimm spared them a glance – he was still clinging desperately to their vehicle – and grunted. "Ornithopters." He told Harry. "Gnome invention. They was trying ter compete with the Dwarf dirigibles, but they can't make 'em big enough fer cargo or passenger work - they'll not carry but the pilot and one passenger or some packages. They're well quick, though, so they use 'em fer mail-runs or urgent deliveries.

"I'll be goin' back to the Institute by 'thopter meself, so I'll be droppin' yer off at the station. Sorry I can't go any further with yer, but there's stuff I've gotta do before the kids all arrive."

"Fair enough," Harry said. "I think I can manage a train journey by myself. I'll see you again at the school?"

"I'll be around." Grimm assured him. "Got a little place on the grounds. If yer've got a spot of free time, pop round fer a cuppa sometime. Yer'll always be welcome."

"I'll do that." Harry promised. "Is this the station? Can't think how I'm going to carry all this stuff, do they have trolleys?"

"I'll help yer in with it all." Grimm told him. "Then yer'll need to find a porter. Yer want an Eastern Line train, the Hogsblood Special from Platform Nine, the red and gold ones. So look fer a porter in red and gold, yer'll need ter tip him a couple of marks if yer want good service, mind. Here's yer ticket."

Shortly after that, Grimm bade Harry goodbye, and left him standing beside his trunk and cases in the vast, bright concourse of Swanhaven Station. He was alone for the first time since this journey had begun.

"Well, this is where the fun really starts!" He told Quoth, who seemed unimpressed with the whole thing.

Just then, a Dwarf in an elaborate red and gold uniform, pushing an empty trolley, stopped next to him and looked him up and down.

"Help you?" He asked shortly. He looked harassed and more than a little grumpy.

Remembering Dwalin at the bank, Harry gave a short bow. "Harry Logan at your service." He said.

This effected an immediate change in the Dwarfs' demeanour. His bearded face split in a wide grin, and he returned Harry's bow.

"Bofur at yours' and your familys'" He answered. "You're headed for the Hogsblood Special? Good, we have plenty of time. Let's get your things loaded up."

It had always been a maxim of Aunt Martha that a little politeness worked wonders. "Good manners cost nothing," she used to tell the boys, "but they can make all the difference to people!" Twice now, on the Ljossalfar ship and here, she'd been proved right. That implied that a lot of the other advice she'd given was probably right as well. Except the bit about staying away from girls – Harry couldn't see any point in that!

_Well, from now on I'll start out by being polite. _Harry decided. _Then if that doesn't work, I'll see what a smack in the mouth can do!_

As they traversed the concourse toward the platforms, Bofur asked Harry, "First time?"

When Harry acknowledged that it was, the Dwarf went on to explain. "We've got three train companies. The Eastern Line - that's us – are the red and gold trains. Western Line are green and gold, and Central Rail are blue and silver. Here, you can see most of the platforms and yards from here!"

They had stopped in the middle of a high walkway, and from here, Harry could get a closer view of what he'd seen from the top of the hill. Now he noticed that as well as the colours being different, so were the styles of the locomotives. The Eastern Line trains looked like the traditional British engines pictured in books and magazines about the 'Steam Age', or in _Thomas the Tank Engine_ books. Western Line ones, and Harry found this amusing, bore a greater resemblance to the locomotives he'd seen in cowboy films, with tall, flared smokestacks and cow-catchers on the front. The blue and silver Central ones, however, were very different, looking more like the 1940's 'streamliner' engines you sometimes saw in films.

They finally found their way to Platform Nine, at which a long train waited. The platform was already beginning to fill with families, but Bofur negotiated the thickening crowd deftly.

"Right!" He said, stopping by a carriage door. "This one's next to the buffet, so it'll fill up fast, but we're ahead of the rush. Grab your bird and anything you want to take on with you, I'll get the rest down to the luggage van. It'll be taken off at the other end and sent up to the Institute for you."

Mindful of what Grimm had told him, Harry pressed five marks into the Dwarf's hand as he thanked him. Bofur glanced at the tip, then bowed low. "It's been an honour and a pleasure, Harry Logan. I'll personally see to it that your luggage is made secure."

Bofur had been right about the rush not really starting yet, and Harry secured himself an empty compartment. Once there, with Quoth settled in his cage on the seat beside him and his small 'personal' case on the luggage rack, Harry fell to considering what lay ahead.

The events of the last few weeks had been odd enough. He'd been attacked twice, and rescued twice. He'd met the immortal MacLeod, the enigmatic Mithradore and the giant Grimm. Out of these three he felt sure of two, but was not inclined to trust Mithradore any further than he could throw him. It was clear that the old man knew far more than the other two put together, but had told Harry much less. So the Director already had a black mark against him in Harry's estimation, time would tell whether to remove it or add to it.

As to his destination, he had no idea what to expect. On the one hand, it was probably pretty much like any other school. Where you get a lot of kids together, the same sorts of things tend to happen. There'd be the cliques and clubs, the popular kids, the nerds, the geeks and the sporting types. There'd be the friendships, the rivalries and the bullies and sneaks. The staff would be the usual mix of incompetent young idealists, burned-out time-servers, competent and popular teachers, the ones you didn't get on the wrong side of and the nasty bastards.

But this was a school for wizards, so what would the lessons be like? Harry suspected that he'd be taking courses not found on any other curriculum in the world. Would he carry on studying stuff like English, Maths and Science? What did a wizard school do about RE or PSHE? How did boarding schools handle homework? What happened at the weekends? What sort of sports would there be? Harry, like most of his generation, had never read the boarding-school stories that had once been so popular among children, so he had no idea about any of these things.

Then there were the wider questions about the world he was to be part of. He'd already met Elves, Dwarfs and Gnomes, and seen creatures he'd once thought mythical or extinct. He was on a continent everyone else assumed to be either lost or never to have existed. There would be laws he didn't know about, enforced by a government he didn't understand the structure of. Was the Shadow World a democracy like the one he'd grown up in? Or was it some kind of dictatorship or oligarchy? Harry wasn't sure what an oligarchy was – there were a lot of words ending in -archy or -cracy and they all had something to do with governments, but he could never tell one from another.

He'd been so busy with his ruminations that he hadn't noticed that the train had begun to pull out of the station. He came back to the here and now when a tall figure opened the door of the compartment and stuck his head in.

"Got room for a couple more in here, my cousin and I, for instance?"

The lad was tall, much taller than Harry, but thin and gangly. He had red hair and a sharp but pleasant face with bright blue eyes and a broad grin. There was a girl standing just behind him who also had red hair, but she had a neat, compact form and a pointed, pretty face.

"Wheel yourselves in and park your bums." Harry invited. "Plenty of room!"

The two of them came in and sat down opposite Harry. The boy leaned across and stuck out a large, long-fingered hand. "Ron Stark." He introduced himself. Harry shook the hand, finding it wiry and strong, though not as strong as his. "Harry Logan." He replied. The girl offered her hand. "Ginny Sommers." She said. "Are you a muggle-born? Only we're pure-blood wizards, and we've not met any muggle-borns yet. Well, not ones our own age."

"Well, actually, I was more muggle-_raised." _Harry admitted. "My parents were a wizard and a witch, but they died when I was tiny. I was brought up by my muggle aunt and uncle. Didn't even know I was a wizard until a week or two back, as it goes."

Ron blinked, then snapped his fingers. "Wait a min! You're _the_ Harry Logan? The one everybody thought was dead until a month or so ago?"

"You know that?" Harry was a bit taken aback.

"Oh, yeah! Was all over the papers when they found you were still alive!" Ron stated.

"I didn't see that!" Ginny objected.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Try reading something other than the sports pages and the funnies." He told her.

Ginny gave him the finger, then turned to Harry.

"Our families are going to be chuffed we met you." She announced. "They were good friends with the Logan family."

Harry filed this away for future reference as potentially another source of information. "So, what about this school, then?" He asked. "What sort of thing goes on there?"

"The usual." Ron said. "English, Maths, History, Geography, Modern Languages, Civics, Latin and Greek, PE and Sports. But on top of that, we'll have Astronomy and Astrology, Ritual Magic, Natural Magic, Alchemy, Sagecraft and Talent. "

Harry nodded, that made a kind of sense – he could take a guess at some of the more unusual subjects, but one puzzled him.

"Talent?" He asked.

Ginny blinked, then said "Of course, you wouldn't know! Every witch or wizard has a special Talent over and above their magic. It can be almost anything, from just being extra-good at one particular thing, to something really odd and powerful. We'll be Talent-tested on the first day. Most people don't know what their Talent is until the Test, but some already know. Like me, for instance."

She slipped her T-shirt off one shoulder to reveal a small silver birthmark.

"It looks like the Moon." Harry noted. "What does it mean?"

"It means I'm a Lunar Guardian." She told him.

"And that means what?" Harry asked.

"Don't, Gin." Ron murmured, but she ignored him.

"It means I can do this!" She said, and launched a blindingly fast punch at Harry's face.

Ron had seen this before, and knew the blow would stop a quarter-inch short of Harry's nose. Only it didn't. Harry reacted with equal, perhaps greater, speed, one big strong hand closing on Ginny's slim wrist before the punch was half-way to its target.

Surprised, Ginny tried to pull her hand back. She was very strong, Harry noted. Unusually so, but not quite as strong as him, and he held her firmly, not hurting her.

Ron burst out laughing. "Finally!" He crowed. "You have no idea, Harry, how often I've seen her pull that one! It's about time somebody took the wind out of her sails!"

Ginny, realising she wasn't about to break Harry's grip easily, relaxed, so he released her wrist.

"Nobody ever did that to me!" She said. "You must have a Hell of a Talent!"

"Maybe I'm the same as you." Harry suggested. "But I don't have a birthmark."

Ginny shook her head. "You can't be." She told him. "Lunar Guardians are always girls, women. We're adapted to hunt and kill Vampires, so we're strong, fast, can see in the dark and sense Undead at a distance."

Harry was about to ask more, when the compartment door opened again.

"So, the rumours are true," murmured a silky voice, "the last of the Logans has come back to Atlantis."

The boy at the door was also their age, tallish and slender. He had very blond hair and a thin face that didn't look quite right to Harry. The colour of the skin seemed a little too even, without the little changes in shade that mark most people's skin. His eyes – pale blue – seemed a bit too glassy, not quite focused, though he was looking straight at Harry.

"I'm Harry Logan." Harry allowed. "And you would be...?"

"Draco Schmidt." the boy announced, stepping further into the compartment. He leaned over Harry in a way that was clearly meant to be intimidating, but only succeeded in being annoying. He spoke in a tone that was confidential, but at a volume that ensured everyone heard him.

"You need to avoid making too many mistakes, Harry. Hanging around with Stark and Sommers and their sort might make _certain people_ wonder where your loyalties lie. That was the mistake your parents made, and look what happened to them!"

"Well," Harry said slowly, "if these _certain people_ are the ones responsible for murdering my parents, I'm anxious to meet them. Once."

Draco pulled himself up straighter. "Don't be an idiot, Logan!" He snapped. "Stick with me and do as I say, and you won't have to be scared any more."

"Are you suggesting," Harry got to his feet, "that I'm scared now? Because if you are, you're a bigger dickhead than you look!"

"You're as big a fool as your father!" Draco hissed.

Harry had decided that this was a case of smack in the mouth, rather than politeness. Still, he made one last attempt to stave off violence.

"Get your skinny arse out of here," he told Draco, "before I kick it out!"

Draco gave a cold smile, and suddenly there were three of him. "And which of us are you going to kick, Logan?" They asked mockingly.

Harry inhaled deeply, and almost laughed. It was too easy! One Draco smelled of laundry detergent, soap, deodorant, sweaty feet and fear. The other two didn't smell of anything at all. Only one Draco had an elevated heartbeat. That was the Draco that doubled over, the breath whooshing out of him, as Harry jabbed rigid fingers into his stomach. The two false Dracos vanished as Harry took the real one by the scruff and deposited him unceremoniously in the corridor.

"Stay the fuck out of my face, Schmidt," Harry warned, "or I'll rearrange yours for you!"

Draco got to his feet and staggered off without another word. Harry went back and sat down.

"So, he's a Creator, an illusion-spinner." Ginny said. "How did you know which was the real one, Harry?"

"Only one of them had a scent and a heartbeat." Harry told her.

Ron and Ginny shared a look. Ron mouthed the word _Feral_ at his cousin. Harry didn't notice.

The three fell to general chit-chat. Harry discovered that growing up in Atlantis wasn't really so very different from growing up in England. The only real difference was that where he had used technology, Ron and Ginny used magic. Ginny seemed less than interested in such things as Play Stations and mobile phones, but Ron was fascinated by them, questioning Harry minutely, and a little insistently, on what they did and how they did it all.

Still, it was Ron who suggested they grab lunch early, to avoid the queue at the buffet. They made their way along the corridor, returning shortly, loaded down with sausage rolls, pork pies, several packs of substantial sandwiches and some cans of the local cola.

Ron applied himself to lunch with the single-mindedness of a true trencherman, allowing Giny the chance to question Harry. She wanted to know about his home, his school, his family and friends. For some reason she pressed him hard on the subject of girls. Harry told her about Siobhan, and mentioned Faelivrin in passing. Ginny seemed unduly curious about Siobhan, but dismissed Faelivrin with a curl of her lip. "Dokkalfar girls!" She snorted. "Everybody knows about _them_!"

Harry rather liked Faelivrin, so he left it at that, taking Ginny's comment with a liberal pinch of salt. However, he did recall some remarks Grimm had made about Dokkalfar. This, along with the contrast in manner between the Ljossalfar Haldir and his 'shadow-cousin' Amroth, made him curious. _Something to look into later,_ he decided.

Just as they were finishing their lunch, two figures appeared at the compartment door.

"Excuse me," said the one in front, a short, slender girl with a mane of brown hair, a strong-boned face and piercing pale blue eyes, "have any of you seen a toad wandering about?"

"Do toads wander?" Asked Ron quizzically, earning a glare from the girl. A blond head with a round face, a sunny grin and direct, deep blue eyes peeped round the girls' shoulder.

"Trevor does!" The boy asserted. "What you might call a Wandering Toad!"

The girl came into the compartment and began nosing around, looking in the luggage rack and under the seats. The boy remained standing in the doorway. He was distinctly undersized and skinny – he looked about nine, in fact. He grinned again.

"Neville Rogers." He said by way of introduction. "Scion of an old and honourable pure-blood family and deep disappointment to his grandmother!"

"Don't say things like that, Neville!" Snapped the girl. "You need to work on your self-esteem!"

Neville laughed. "There's nothing wrong with my _self_-esteem, Temperance. It's everyone elses' esteem of me that's up the creek!"

The girl called Temperance snorted, then said to Ginny. "Move your legs, please!" Making it sound more of an order than a request.

"You're wasting your time." Ginny replied. "If that toad came in here around lunchtime, Ron's probably eaten it!"

"Do you mind?" Ron said, then put out a hand to Temperance, who had finally straightened up. "Ron Stark." He said. "My cousin Ginny Sommers, and this is Harry Logan."

"Temperance Granger." The girl introduced herself, then turned to Harry. "I read that the Logans were extinct."

"Do I look like a dinosaur?" Harry asked.

"Well, now that you mention it..." Ron said.

"Friendly insults." Temperance noted with a touch of impatience. "Typical male bonding behaviour.

"What I _meant_ was that in Routel's _History of Modern Magic_ he mentioned that the infamous Dr Morsmordre wiped out the Logan family, for reasons unknown."

"Oh, I dare say Morsmordre knew the reason." Harry remarked. "I'll just bet that some others did, too. I intend to find out one of these days."

"Quite." Temperance replied. "Well, you'd best get your ties on, because we're nearly there. Neville, let's have a last look round!"

She flounced off. Neville waited a second, then reached into his pocket and produced a small, rather self-satisfied, toad.

"I had to get her out of our compartment before somebody strangled her." He said softly, then winked and went off.

Temperance had been right about being nearly at their destination. Ron and Harry barely had time to put on their ties and struggle into stiff new blazers before the train came to a stop. A quiet but clear voice spoke out of the air: _Attention, please. We have arrived at Hogswatch Halt. All passengers for the Hogsblood Institute please disembark here._

The platform was crowded and more than a little chaotic. Dwarf porters were bellowing "Hand luggage only on the carriages! Other luggage will be taken up to the Institute separately!"

Kids were laughing, greeting old friends, and old enemies, teasing, quarrelling and generally being kids. Harry and his new friends found themselves in a small knot with Neville and Temperance, following the tide. Harry began to understand why Neville had wanted to get Temperance away from the others. The brown-haired girl remarked and lectured on everything around them in a strident, hectoring tone that grated on the ear. Only Harry could scent the nervousness that poured off her.

There was something of a log-jam at the exit turnstiles, where tickets were being checked. So Harry and the others put their luggage down while they waited. As they stood there, chatting, Harry caught a scent that was almost familiar. It was definitely Alfar, but it reminded him of somebody he knew.

He glanced around and almost at once spotted a tall Ljossalfar woman slipping through the crowd. She was wearing camouflage gear and appeared to be accosting some of the older students, and handing out leaflets. She paused by the group, looked them over (Ron was as tall as some of the older kids), and was about to move on when Harry greeted her in the manner he'd learned on Haldirs' ship. The woman blinked, then smiled and responded in kind.

"Well met indeed, young man! It is rare to meet one so young who is thus familiar with the ways of the Alfar. How comes this?"

Harry shrugged. "I came to Atlantis on an Alfar ship. The _Jubilation of Osse_."

The woman's smile widened. "Ah! Then you are Harry Logan, yes? Captain Haldir is my brother, and he has spoken well of you. I see he was not mistaken.

"I am called Anwen, and I am an Oathblade of the Warsworn. I come here each year on this day to see if I can interest likely young wizards in joining the Order. You are over-young yet, Harry Logan, but perhaps in a few years, we shall speak again?"

"Maybe," Harry allowed, "if I knew who or what the Warsworn are."

For answer, Anwen handed him a leaflet, smiled, bowed and went about her business.

"I hope you're not thinking _seriously_ about that, Harry." Temperance said from behind him. "The military is just a tool of _oppression_, you know. _Violence_ solves nothing."

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to point out that he had quite satisfactorily solved one or two problems by the judicious application of violence, when the queue moved on.

Outside the station, there was no more milling around. A giant figure in a long coat was bellowing:

"Get in line now! Most of yer know the drill! Six to a carriage and no messin' about!"

It was, of course, Harry's new friend, Rubeus Grimm. The orange man inspired a variety of reactions, clearly scaring some of the First Years, whilst the older kids treated him either with respectful caution or good-natured ribbing.

"Is that a Jotun?" Asked an impressed Neville.

"Nah." Ron told him. "He's about six feet too short for a Jotun, and they don't have orange skin." Answering Neville's look, he added. "There's a Jotun summer camp near where we live, so we see 'em a lot. Nice people, but give 'em a chance and they'll talk your ears off!"

"A Golem, maybe?" Ginny hazarded. "He seems to be made of stone or something."

"Golems are _illegal_ outside licensed facilities." Temperance pointed out. "Have _any_ of you ever read _anything_?"

Harry spoke up. "His name's Rubeus Grimm, and he is human. He brought me to Atlantis. He works at the Institute. I think there was some kind of accident years ago that made him look like that, but he doesn't like to talk about it. He's very strong, very kind, and he saved my life at least once. He's a friend of mine, so be nice to him!"

That got everyones' attention, but there wasn't time to discuss it right now. Harry promised to tell them everything later.

The carriages were large coaches, each drawn by one of the miniature Triceratops Harry had seen in Swanhaven. Ron saw him staring at them and said.

"They're zamphs. Big, strong, gentle and not very bright. We use 'em for draught animals and meat as well. Zamph eggs are really tasty!"

The five new friends piled into a carriage and were joined by a skinny girl with waist-length blonde hair. She had a pale, thin face and large blue eyes accentuated with lots of black eyeliner. She was also wearing black lipstick and black nail varnish. She introduced herself as Abby Lovegood.

"You must be muggle-born as well?" Temperance asked.

Abby shook her head. "Pureblood, actually. Not that it matters much."

Temperance frowned. "But..you're a _Goth_!" She said. "I didn't realise there were Goths and Townies and all that here. I was hoping to get away from all that!"

Abby waved a hand airily. "I read an article about young muggles in a magazine, and I liked the look. I like being a bit different."

"Nothing wrong with that." Ron averred. "Specially when everybody seems to want you to conform. Like with these uniforms and stuff."

"It's not about _conforming_, Ron!" Temperance snapped. "It's about _equality_!"

"Bollocks!" Ron responded cheerfully. "It's about keeping us all under control. There's about a thousand kids go to to the Institute, right? Now if they're all wearing different kit, and running about doing all different stuff at different times, nobody's going to know what the Hell is going on!

"But dress us all the same, give us all these badges and stuff, make sure we're all going to the same places and doing the same things at the same time, then they know where we all are. We're under control, and safe. Then we keep the habit when we leave school, and they've got their law and order, because anybody too different must be up to something, right?"

No, no, no!" Temperance protested. "The _point _of the uniforms is to _minimise_ the perceived differences in gender, ethnicity and social status. If we all _look_ the same, we'll all be _treated_ the same. It levels the playing field, makes sure we all get the same _opportunities_."

_You can hear the italics when she talks._ Harry noted. Temperance and Ron were now fully launched into an argument they were both clearly enjoying hugely. Harry looked around the carriage. Neville was shaking with suppressed laughter. Ginny rolled her eyes at him. Abby was looking out of the window, but she seemed to feel Harry's glance, because she turned, gave him a solemn wink, then returned to her contemplation of the outside world.


End file.
